The Trouble I've Seen E-Book

Martha Gellhorn

• Herausgeber: Eland Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 414

Beschreibung

These four interlinked stories encapsulate Martha Gellhorn's firsthand observation of the Great Depression. Fiction crafted with documentary accuracy, they vividly render the gradual spiritual collapse of the simple, homely sufficiency of American life in the face of sudden unemployment, desperate poverty and hopelessness. They catch the mood of a generation 'sucked into indifference' and of young men who no longer 'believe in man or God, let alone private industry'. Martha was the youngest of a squad of sixteen, handpicked reporters who were paid to file accurate, confidential reports on the human stories behind the statisti of the Depression directly to Roosevelt's White House. In these pages, we understand the real cost of sudden destitution on a vast scale. We taste the dust in the mouth, smell the disease and feel the hopelessness and the despair. And here, too, we can hear the earliest cadences of the voice of a writer who went on to become, arguably, the greatest female war reporter of the 20th century.

Leseprobe

The Trouble I’ve Seen

MARTHA GELLHORN

With an introduction by Caroline Moorehead

To My Father

‘Nobody knows de trouble I’ve seen.

Nobody knows but Jesus …’

Negro Spiritual       

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

Introduction

Mrs Maddison

Joe and Pete

Jim

Ruby

About the Author

Copyright 

Introduction

IN WHAT BECAME known as Black Tuesday, October 29 1929, the US stock market crashed. All across the country – and soon across much of the world – personal income, tax revenues, profits, prices and trade all dropped, and went on dropping. By the summer of 1933, 17 million Americans were out of work. Steel plants and coal mines were at a virtual standstill. Thirty-eight states had closed their banks, and over a quarter of a million families had been evicted from their homes. In the mining communities of West Virginia, Illinois, Kentucky and Pennsylvania, children spent their days picking through rubbish dumps and fighting over scraps of food. Skin diseases, tuberculosis and syphilis were spreading and both the Ku Klux Klan and the Communist-leaning labour organisers were finding willing recruits among people reduced by extreme poverty to apathy and a profound sense of hopelessness.

To make it infinitely worse, the Great Plains of the Midwest had been hit by a severe drought. Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico, Colorado and Kansas has become a ‘dust bowl’, across which rolled waves of sand and earth, filling people’s ears and noses and suffocating animals. The countryside was a desolate barren stretch of dead trees and drifting brushwood. As people ceased to be able to afford their mortgages or rent, so they lost their homes. Camps were spreading around the outskirts of cities, along the dry riverbeds and railway sidings, built out of cardboard and sacks and corrugated iron, widely known as Hoovervilles, after President Herbert Hoover. There were also ‘Hoover blankets’, made out of newspapers, and ‘Hoover leathers’, cardboard soles for shoes.

While those on the right maintained that the ‘losers’ and ‘chisellers’ were experiencing the natural consequences of their own moral collapse, and developing an unhealthy expectation of handouts, those on the left argued that the Depression was caused by the excessive, concentrated power of the elites, looking out for their own interests. Meanwhile the rising number of the unemployed was overwhelming the traditional instruments of welfare, and local organisations, once able to cope with periodic economic downturns, watched helplessly as families were thrown out of their homes, fathers lost their jobs and children went hungry. 

* * *

In 1932, when the economy had reached its lowest point, Hoover lost the presidential elections to Franklin Roosevelt, who came to power determined to halt all further slide into poverty. He set up, as rapidly as possible, the administration of relief on a scale never before attempted. Under a first New Deal, a Civil Works Programme was established under powers granted to him by the National Recovery Act, intended to stimulate demand and provide work and relief through increased public spending. Within four months, four million people were back in work. A Public Works Administration followed, employing people to build bridges, parks and schools. A second New Deal added social security, a national relief agency and strong stimulus to the growth of labour unions. During one of his early fireside chats, Roosevelt told Americans that the only thing they had to fear was ‘fear itself – nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyses needed efforts to convert retreat into advance’. His campaign song was ‘Happy Days are Here Again’.

To put his plans for relief and the recovery of the economy into action, Roosevelt appointed a brains trust of practical and imaginative New Dealers. One of these was a crumpled, argumentative man called Harold Hopkins, whose eyes bulged and who chain-smoked and drank too much coffee. In New York, Hopkins had helped create one of the first public employment programmes in the country, before drafting a charter for the American Association of Social Workers. Roosevelt summoned Hopkins to Washington and asked him to administer a vast programme of public relief, under the name of the Federal Emergency Relief Administration. FERA was given $500 million to help states meet their relief needs, for every dollar of which three dollars of public money from other sources would be spent. A further $250 million was held as a discretionary fund for Hopkins to allocate to states where needs were too great and funds too depleted.

As an administrator, Hopkins was creative, sympathetic and driven. He was fortunate that when he arrived in Washington, there was no bureaucracy and no model for him to inherit. He could pick and choose the people he wanted and he could also experiment far more quickly and radically than other New Dealers. Until that moment, relief had been the responsibility of states. Hopkins was entering uncharted waters.

His was also one of the toughest assignments of the New Deal. He had to understand, and respond to, not only what was happening across the US, but provide data to the President and Congress, and be aware of what other New Dealers were doing. To assist him, he was given a division of Research, Statistics and Finance. Soon he was complaining that he was drowning in facts, yet knew very little about the human tragedy of unemployment, what it was actually costing in terms of broken families, alcoholism, disease and hunger. He wanted something more, something intangible and descriptive, something that would tell him what it felt like for a man to lose his job, his savings and his house and to watch his family sink into misery. Only then, he said, would he really be able to take the pulse of the country and devise a sound relief programme for the ‘third of the nation’ that was ‘ill-nourished, ill-clad, ill-housed’.

And so, in the summer of 1933, a remarkable venture was born.

Hopkins began by hiring as chief investigator into the ills of the Depression a tough-minded, overweight, erratic 41-year-old reporter called Lorena Hickok. The daughter of a travelling butter-maker, who had beaten her as a child, Hickok left home at 14 to work as a hired girl until rescued by a cousin who helped her through school. Joining the Minneapolis Tribune as a cub reporter, she became one of the first women to be employed by the Associated Press. Hickok, who had been responsible for introdu-cing Eleanor Roosevelt to the American public, and had since become very close to the First Lady, had bright blue eyes and wore raincoats and hats with wide brims and vivid red lipstick. She played poker and drank Bourbon with the boys. ‘Don’t ever forget’, Hopkins told her, as he sent her out to observe and report on the effects of the Depression on the American people and the success of his relief programmes, ‘that but for the grace of God, you, I, any of our friends might be in their shoes.’

In August 1933, Hickok set out from Washington in a car she called Bluette. She had been given $5 a day for her expenses, and $0.5 per mile for Bluette. ‘Since we have not discussed as yet the form my reports to you are to take,’ she wrote to Hopkins, ‘I’m going to give you the first one in the form of a letter, telling you where I have been and what I’ve seen this week.’ It became the model for her subsequent 120 reports.

Over the next 18 months, Hickok visited every state in the US except for the North West. It was not unusual for her to travel 2000 miles in a week, writing up her reports, which ran to several thousand words, at night on her typewriter in her motel room. Her style was breezy, evocative and free of cant; she quoted at length conversations with workers, families, reporters, employers, industrialists and union leaders. ‘Cheer up. I’ll be brief,’ she wrote from South Dakota on November 7 1933. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m tired.’ Normally she posted her reports, but when she encountered an emergency – as in the Midwest, where she found that drought, dust and grasshoppers had wiped out the crops – she telegraphed them.

What Hickok had to say was grim. From Puerto Rico, on March 20 1934, came a description that would be repeated, in one form or another, from states all across America.

No one could give you an adequate description of those slums. You’d have to see them, that’s all. Photographs won’t do it, either. They don’t give you the odors. Imagine a swamp, with stagnant, scum-covered, muddy water everywhere, in open ditches, pools, backed up around and under the houses. Flies swarming everywhere. Mosquitoes. Rats. Miserable, scrawny, sick cats and dogs and goats, crawling about. Pack into this area, over those pools and ditches as many shacks as you can, so close together that there is barely room to pass between them. Ramshackle, makeshift affairs, made of bits of board and rusty tin, picked up here and there. Into each room put a family, ranging from three or four persons to eighteen or twenty. Put in some malaria and hookworm, and in about every other house someone with tuberculosis, coughing and spitting around, probably occupying the family’s only bed. And remember, not a latrine in the place. No room for them. No place to dispose of garbage, either. Everything dumped right out into the mud and stagnant water. And pour down into that mess good, hot sun – that may be good for rickets, but certainly [it] doesn’t help your stomach any as you plod through the mud followed by swarms of flies and animals and half-naked, sick, perspiring humans. All this may give you just an idea of what those slums are like.

In many of the places where Hickok stopped to talk to employers, and to those who had managed to escape the worst effects of the Depression, she noted appalling racism. A Baptist pastor told her that he ‘understood Negroes and loved them – as one loves horses and dogs’. ‘Negroes’, she was told, were ‘going to get it in the neck’, because as jobs vanished, ‘the tendency is to throw out Negroes and hire whites, and this was only right since they are uniformly lazy and shiftless’. Hickok was not free of extreme racist language herself, at least in the early days of her travels. The ‘Latins and Indians’ she wrote to Hopkins, were easy-going, pleasure-loving ‘simple fellows with simple needs, to be obtained with the least effort’. In Jessup, Georgia, she told him, half the population was black: ‘Even their lips are black, and the whites of their eyes … They’re almost as inarticulate as animals. They ARE animals. Many of them look and talk like creatures barely removed from the Ape.’ As the weeks passed, and she travelled further, she modified her tone.

Life alone on the road, constantly moving, began to take its toll. In the desert between Lordsburg, New Mexico and Tucson, she turned Bluette over and injured her neck. A doctor forced her to spend a day in bed. When it all got too gruelling she cheered herself up with food and drink, which only exacerbated her underlying diabetes. In New Orleans one evening she wrote to Eleanor Roosevelt, with whom she was in touch almost daily, to tell her that she had just put away two gin fizzes, shrimp, fish, a potato soufflé and crepes suzette, along with a ‘pint of sauterne’.

At the end of 1934, exhausted and low in spirits, Hickok delivered a report summary. Its conclusion was bald. Having analysed the possibilities for the various industries, the numbers of employees, and the projected figures for further layoffs, she concluded: ‘Relief on a nation-wide scale will be indispensable during the coming fiscal year.’ ‘And so they go on,’ she wrote, describing the families she had seen, ‘the gaunt, ragged legion of the individually damned. Bewildered, apathetic, many of them terrifyingly patient.’ With this, Hickok returned to Washington, where she became the Executive Secretary of the Women’s Division of the Democratic National Committee and spent much of her time with Eleanor Roosevelt in the White House.

Hickok had provided a highly informative picture of Depression America, but Hopkins wanted more: he needed other voices, more far-flung journeys, more up-to-date reports on the workings of his relief programmes and on the effectiveness of the women he had appointed as administrators – something of a novelty at a time when there was still considerable prejudice against women holding senior jobs. He was also very conscious of the stigma that went with accepting charity, not least because throughout the country there were people protesting against the indignity of public handouts. Was it better to boost work programmes? Should assistance take the form of cash or food parcels? And, hovering over everything was the alarming question of the extent to which communist agitators might be fomenting trouble.

Hickok’s excellent reports had convinced Hopkins that the best way to find out what was really going on was to send out investigators. And so he recruited a team of 16 writers, journalists, economists and novelists, all people accustomed to listening to what people said, marshalling facts quickly, and writing it all down simply and clearly. His investigators would report to him alone and have no powers of implementation. Hickok had had all America as her beat. The 16 new recruits were assigned either a number of neighbouring states or a major city and its immediate surroundings. Their instructions were to go wherever unemployment and poverty were most acute; to talk to as many people as possible; to write down everything they saw and heard and to send it to him. Their pay was $35 a week. Those who had cars took them. The others cadged lifts from local FERA social workers or caught buses, trains and trolleys. Sometimes they went on foot. What they sent in, week after week, in carefully typed, minutely detailed reports running to many thousands of words, was a haunting picture of despair. Some, like Hickok, wrote breezily; others were analytical; others again passionate. Between them, they provide one of the most evocative – and least known – portraits of America during the Great Depression.

For some of the young investigators, their first encounter with destitution proved almost overwhelming. Edward J Webster, assigned the zinc, lead, oil, lumber and cotton communities of Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas and Arkansas, reported ever growing need: ‘as unemployment continues, people become increasingly unemployable, few savings and resources run out, and people continue to move from the countryside to the towns’. The elderly and the disabled, he wrote, who had formerly been cared for by private welfare agencies or by their relatives, ‘have been dumped into the lap of the Federal government’ along with ‘vast numbers of the socially inadequate, dwellers in shacks, shanties and vermin infested unsanitary urban hovels, who have never known anything but poverty’.

Webster remarked repeatedly on the spreading sense of dependency on relief, bringing in its wake more complaints, more mental suffering and, particularly in the ‘higher socio-economic groups increasing groping, bewilderment and discouragement … They consider themselves disgraced’. Everything must be done, he wrote, to avoid this ‘wreckage of personality’ and the destruction of ‘those incentives without which no man or woman can carry on’. Webster had come away from the shanty towns of west Dallas, he said, ‘with refreshing memories of the beggar cities of the Far East, and the somewhat embarrassing realisation that those Oriental human dumps were very, very good’.

Lincoln Concord, a well-known writer of sea fiction and, at 51, one of the oldest of the investigators, was sent to Michigan where he reported that Detroit was not so much ‘disturbed as prostrated’. The banking crisis of 1932 had broken in Detroit – ‘the spearhead of the Depression’ – and there were 34 banks and leading citizens under indictment as a result of the crash. The feeling that these were being made scapegoats was ‘hanging like a pall over the community’.

From Pennsylvania, Henry Francis wrote to Hopkins that he had been so sickened by the spectacle of the mining towns that he had fled, ‘sick at heart’. The soft coal industry had been one of the first to crash; the local mines had closed, partly or totally; outside the crumbling shacks were garbage-strewn slags, closed company stores and filthy ragged children, all of them without shoes and ‘losing their grip on themselves’. Some of the families who had lost their homes were now living in caves. ‘Conditions on the patch are bad,’ he wrote.

Some slate roofs leak; porches are dangerously shaky, lack guard rails etc. One woman fell off a porch a month or so ago and broke her neck. The Brownsville undertaker buried her ‘on credit’. I saw her son. The porch still lacked a guard rail to prevent one stepping backward to a 12 foot drop.

‘Why don’t you get a board and nail it up?’ I asked the lad, after talking with him awhile.

‘I’d be a coward to do that now,’ he said. ‘I didn’t do it when my mother was alive, did I? Why should I do it now?’

The boy was 18 or 19 years old. I understood his point of view when I learned that there was a suit against the company for damages.

I saw woeful conditions in this place. Thirteen people sleeping in three rooms amid filth. Three adults in one bed is common. Bedding is terrible. Binion, who accompanied me, said, ‘People might clean up a little better but they’ve lost heart.’ Shoes, underwear, sweaters and bedding are urgently needed.

From Clarksburg, Francis sent a number of stories of particular families.

Benjamin Burdick is a former miner. He lives in Stonewall Park. Pays $13.50 for his house. Is on work relief five days a month. Had a splendid garden and has a cellar full of preserves. Commodities help out. Daughter, 19, formerly worked with Pittsburgh Plate Glass Co., but was let out four months ago. She walks six miles to the plant and return to look for work. She is going again on Wednesday and, as the Relief visitor has interceded for her, hopes for a chance to earn $12 a week again … The daughter is ready to crack under the strain. She’s intelligent, good-looking. But there’s fire in her eyes.

Charles West, formerly a miner and more lately a janitor, received underwear from the relief organisation and, upon our visit, begged that it be changed for shoes for his wife. ‘I can get along without underwear,’ he said. ‘Give the missus some shoes instead.’ Mrs West shrank back in embarrassment, flushed and stammered refusal. Both are real people. Own their home. Owe two years’ back taxes. Mrs West’s father, an invalid, lives with them. He’s eighty; they’re over fifty … The home is spotless. Clothes needed badly.

* * *

The youngest of Hopkins’s team of investigators was Martha Gellhorn, recently arrived back in the States from three years in Europe, and still recovering from the end of a long love affair with the French writer, Bertrand de Jouvenel. She was 25, and the many jobs she had held since leaving Bryn Mawr had included writing articles for a number of American papers. She had been introduced to Hopkins by Eleanor Roosevelt, with whom her mother had been at university. Hopkins decided to send Gellhorn to the textile areas of the Carolinas and to New England.

Before leaving Washington, she was given vouchers for trains and five dollars a day for food, hotels and local travel. Being broke, she had no money with which to buy clothes suitable for tramping around derelict towns. So she set off with what she had brought back with her from Europe, Parisian couturier dresses once worn by models, and a brown crocheted hat with a bright plume of pheasant feathers; she wore plenty of mascara, eye shadow and lipstick.

Gellhorn, however, had a knack for total absorption in work and was soon engrossed in interviewing families. The style of her reports, typed up at night in her hotel room, was very simple, with a careful selection of scenes and quotes, set down without hyperbole. What made it so powerful was her tone, the barely concealed fury at the injustice of man and fate towards the weak, the poor, the dispossessed. In her Schiaparelli suit, with its high Chinese collar fastened by a large brown leather clip, and elegant Parisian shoes, she trudged around the slums and tumbledown shacks, recording in her notebook levels of relief, amount of unemployment, condition of houses. Above all, what fascinated and touched her were the stories of individual men and women laid low by malnutrition, illness and despair. None of the reports that reached Hopkins from his investigators during the autumn of 1934 carried more indignation and pity, though she remained acutely aware that all she was doing was sending Hopkins ‘a bird’s eye view – a bird flying hard and fast’.

From Massachusetts, she wrote:

I have been doing more visiting here; about five families a day. And I find them all in the same shape – fear, fear driving them into a state of semi-collapse; cracking nerves; and an overpowering terror of the future … I haven’t been in one home that hasn’t offered me the spectacle of a human being driven beyond his or her powers of endurance and sanity. They can’t live on the work relief wage; they can’t live on the Public Welfare grocery orders. They can’t pay rent and are evicted. They are shunted from place to place, and are watching their children grow thinner and thinner; fearing the cold for children who have neither coats nor shoes; wondering about coal.

And they don’t understand why or how this happened … The majority of the people are workers, who were competent to do their jobs … Then a mill closes or curtails; a shoe factory closes down or moves to another area. And there they are; for no reason they can understand; forced to be beggars asking for charity; subject to questions from strangers, and to all the miseries and indignities attached to destitution. Their pride is dying but not without due agony … There are no protest groups, there is only decay. Each family in its own miserable home going to pieces. But I wonder if some day, crazed and despairing, they won’t revolt … It seems incredible to think that they will go on living like this, patiently waiting for nothing …

Grim is a gentle word; it’s heartbreaking and terrifying …

All the investigators, travelling through the mining and textile towns or across the parched farming areas, remarked again and again on the sickly and malnourished children and the infectious diseases spreading through the population. They listened to doctors talk about rickets, chronic tooth decay, hookworm, anaemia and pellagra (the skin disease caused by vitamin deficiency), tuberculosis, and syphilis, now found in children as well as adults. It was Gellhorn who voiced their fears at greatest length; like Hickok, she sometimes allowed her sense of urgency and anger to overwhelm her natural sympathy, talking vehemently about the need for birth control and sterilisation for ‘half-wits’, ‘imbeciles’ and the ‘feeble-minded’.

What has been constantly before me is the health problem. To write about it is difficult only in that one doesn’t know where to start … Dietary diseases abound … pellagra is increasing; and I have seen it ranging from scaly elbows in children to insanity in grown men. Here is what doctors say: ‘It’s no use telling mothers what to feed their children: they haven’t the food to give.’ Conditions are really horrible here; it seems as if the people were degenerating before your eyes; the children are worse mentally and physically than their parents.

What horrified Gellhorn was the attitude of doctors when it came to treating syphilis. ‘Cases: a woman brought in a four months old baby; both of them looked deathly ill and the child was paralysed. The mother thought it was infantile; they were both plus four Wasserman. But the treatment costs 25 cents a shot; and in that area the clinic is not allowed to accept relief orders for treatment; they were not being treated.’

Saw a family of four; everyone had syphilis. The boy was moronic and the girl also had t.b. …

And they don’t know what to eat or how to cook it; they don’t know that their bodies can be maintained in health by protective measures; they don’t know that one needn’t have ten children when one can’t feed one; they don’t know that syphilis is destroying and contagious …

It was not the children alone who preoccupied the investigators so much. It was also the young, and especially the young men, who seemed, as Gellhorn put it, ‘apathetic and despairing, feeling there is nothing to look forward to, sinking into indifference’. Martha Bruère, who had recently co-edited a collection of women’s fiction with Mary Ritter Beard, drove through Buffalo, Rochester, Syracuse, Schenectady and Jamestown, places once prosperous with industries that ranged from locomotives to concrete sewer pipes, from spectacles to silk ribbons, and noted that almost none of the young men she spoke to had ever had any work. Furthermore, as single men they had very little hope of being selected for a work relief project, since married men with families were taken on first. ‘According to temperament and surroundings,’ she wrote, ‘they are becoming careless, listless, inert or unruly, violent and destructive.’ What haunted Bruère was this spectacle of a lost generation, for whom economic recovery would simply come too late. Talking of the young, Gellhorn wrote: ‘They don’t believe in man or God, let alone private industry; the only thing that keeps them from suicide is this amazing loss of vitality; they exist.’

One of the clearest answers given by the investigators regarded Hopkins’s basic question about the value of work programmes. Everywhere they travelled, whoever they talked to, employers as much as workers, the replies were always the same: jobs were what was needed, with decent wages; relief, in the form of groceries, vouchers or cash, was not just humiliating but often inappropriate. Thomas Steep, writing from Chicago, reported that the Italian, Jewish and black families he had spoken to had all told him that when it came to home relief, cash was better than kind, since the grocery parcels invariably contained items that one or other of the recipients could not eat.

A successful journalist and Pulitzer Prize travelling scholar with a passion for aeronautical engineering, Wayne Parrish, was sent by Hopkins to New York State and New Jersey, where he remarked on the universal longing for work, without which, he was told, there was nothing but ‘futility’. Listening to applicants for relief in the FERA office in Brooklyn, he heard people blaming Hoover, or the new machines, or the drought, or bad luck – but all spoke of needing relief simply to tide them over until they could find a job again.

There was ‘a young couple’, wrote Parrish, ‘married six months. He lost his job in a poultry concern two months ago. Furniture company threatens to take furniture, lights turned off, and things look black to them just as they are starting out in married life … A boy who had worked in a match factory is applying for self and mother. Business bad and his two sisters and husbands also on relief. A single woman over fifty who used to work in a hospital is down to last cent and is obviously ashamed to have to apply …’ The story he heard, everywhere, was the same: when might work come?

Like Hickok, the investigators belonged to – or had become part of – middle class America, and like her they were not free of prejudice. Not one of them failed at some point to remark on the ‘unworthy’, the ‘chisellers’, the ‘derelict’, those who were basically ‘unemployable’ and for whom no amount of work projects could help. Gellhorn raged against lack of birth control, families of 14 or more where mothers and daughters were pregnant at the same time and in which children were growing up ‘in terrible surroundings: dirt, disease, over-crowding, undernourishment’. ‘You have to fight superstition, stupidity and lack of hygiene … the present generation of unemployed will be useless human material in no time … they are ignorant and often below-par intelligence … why they aren’t all dead of typhoid I don’t know (it would probably be a blessing if they were) …’

For Bruère, as for Gellhorn, it was the white-collar workers, the ‘lost sheep’ for whom the lack of work was a ‘tragedy’. As one of the investigators wrote, ‘the higher the grade, the worse the fall’. ‘Almost all the work projects are Pick-and-Shovel,’ Gellhorn noted. ‘They do not fit into them … Because they are a little most sensitive and keyed a little higher, they seem to break under the effects of Home Relief quicker than labourers.’

In Syracuse, Bruère went out on visits with the case workers. One American family, she reported, ‘lived up a steep narrow freshly painted stairway. The clean fat wife was cooking something on a gas stove which was their only means of heating the place. Her husband – tall, lean and with a bad cough – had been a truck driver for a factory. He sat stolidly with his hands on his knees, nothing to do, nowhere to go. He had kept up his driver’s licence in the hope of getting that sort of work again. He hadn’t got it and had been given three days a week making concrete posts for the edges of roads. They lived on what he was paid, but he did want a warm shirt or coat or something that he could wear at his work’. Still, Bruère conceded, any job was better than nothing, for it would be ‘proof that, when better times came, they were still in the game’. What was essential, she added, and the others repeated, was to avoid ‘breeding a class of paupers’ and to plan for the long term. ‘A carefully formulated, liberal, socially progressive relief policy’, suggested Webster, would find ready support. He had detected, he said, among employers the beginnings of a ‘hospitality of mind’.

* * *

Sending his reporters into the field, Hopkins had also hoped for a clearer picture of how far what Bruère called the ‘Flaming Reds’ were gaining converts among the unemployed. Each, conscientiously, reported on the activities of the various protest groups and union organisers, but only very rarely did they find strong communist leadership. In the midwestern industrial towns of Cleveland, Cincinnati and Indianapolis, David Maynard, one of the two economists in the team, and who had worked for the League of Nations, studied the meetings of the Unemployed Council, one of the more radical pressure groups. ‘Intelligent leadership in these groups is rare,’ he wrote. ‘Most are chronic trouble-makers, known for years; others are borderline mental cases.’ In Syracuse, Bruère observed in passing that ‘although the surface is calm the situation is very ticklish and … there is a large proportion of people in a dangerous mood’. In New York, Wayne Parrish, describing the increased rebelliousness of the unemployed young men, warned, ‘You can’t expect them to be content indefinitely.’ In New Orleans, Webster reported that those on relief were not so much militant as ‘stunned, confused, complacent’.

All the investigators, sooner or later, found themselves talking to ‘hard-nosed’, ‘canny’, ‘tight-fisted’ employers, who complained bitterly that the Roosevelt administration was ‘making America a paradise for professional bums and chronic loafers’. Some of their harshest words were reserved for these uncaring, unyielding men. From Beaver County, in Pennsylvania, came a report that the Koppel Steel Car Company was withholding 50 percent of the very reduced pay packets of the few men still at work for back rent; and that from the remainder they deducted money for water and insurance. On the last day before Christmas 1932 some of the workers were given between 5 and 15 cents for a two week period.

What must have pleased and reassured Hopkins, however, as the reports reached his desk through the autumn and winter of 1934, was the praise for the way his administrators were handling the relief programmes. The women, in particular, were signalled as being both humane and efficient. Julian Claff, reporting from the paint, copper and steel town of Wilmington, though making fun of their starry-eyed ‘belief in Santa Claus’ and grumbling about their insane optimism and the the way that they were ‘so sincere, so absurdly social minded’, concluded: ‘The patience and consideration displayed is worthy of the strongest commendation … This relief show beats anything I ever dreamed of for efficiency …’

Elsewhere, Wayne Parrish noted that in Brooklyn, the ‘tactful handling’ of clients was taking the steam out of the previously vociferous and quarrelsome Unemployed Councils. Gellhorn, reaching Boston from North Carolina in mid November, told Hopkins: ‘Gaston County is my idea of a place to go to acquire melancholia. The only ray of hope is the grand work which our own office is doing: it’s a kind of desperate job like getting the wounded off the battlefield.’ Then she added: ‘With all this, the employed and unemployed go on hoping … they are grand people … They are sound and good humoured; kind and loyal. I don’t believe they are lazy; I believe they are mostly ill and ignorant … The President stands between them and despair, and all the violence which desperation can produce …’ But, she went on, ‘there is hope, confidence; something intangible and real … “the President is not going to forget us.”’ Her wistful conclusion must have afforded Hopkins some comfort.

What Hopkins made of the many thousands of words that reached him, week after week, is not known, but their conclusion – that the best way back to dignity was through employment – helped him frame his campaign for work projects, old-age pensions and child benefits, and focus on longer term measures to introduce the benefits of modern technology to farmers and to put in place safeguards against anything of the kind ever happening to the country again. The New Deal was not without its darker sides, its brushes with social engineering, and several of the investigators were later criticised for concentrating too much on birth control, syphilis and feeble-mindedness, and too little on racial minorities. Taken together, however, these reports present a remarkable and unforgettable portrait of a country in the grip of economic mayhem, still living in an earlier, simpler age, one which would soon vanish before the march of industrial and technological advance. They were filed away in the archives of the Roosevelt administration and have scarcely been consulted since. The investigators, having completed their assignments, returned to their ordinary lives. Lincoln Colcord and Martha Bruère both went on to write books, but only Martha Gellhorn achieved real fame as a writer. Her reports, and those of Lorena Hickok, are journalism at its best.

By 1937, the measures put in place by the two New Deals were paying off. At the peak, in January 1935, more than 20 million people – 16 percent of the population – had been helped, and FERA was sometimes referred to as the ‘heart and soul of the New Deal’. Unemployment had fallen by two thirds, and all the main economic indicators had regained the levels of the late 1920s. Though there was a further downturn that year, the worst of the Depression was over. In Washington, there was a new political alignment, with the Democrats the majority party; their ideas were liberal, and they included big-city machinery and newly empowered labour unions. A Social Security Act had been passed and programmes brought in to help tenant farmers and migrant workers. Women were at last recognised as in need of jobs and relief in their own right. The administration, intent on fending off the Red Menace at home, observed Europe’s political upheavals and Japan’s seizure of Manchuria and felt increasingly isolationist. Within two years, the House Committee on Un-American Activities would be seeing a communist in every trade unionist.

As for Martha Gellhorn, angry and despondent about the misery and poverty she had witnessed, she got herself fired for inciting a group of men on work relief, who were being exploited by a crooked contractor, to rise up and break the windows of the FERA office in protest. Described as a ‘dangerous communist’, she was summoned back to Washington.

In the mill towns of North Carolina, Gellhorn had found not just a subject for a book, but her writing voice. For the next 60 years, in slums, in refugee camps, on war fronts, in fiction and non-fiction, she would use this voice again and again, clear, sure, without exaggeration or bathos, her anger restrained and cool. Invited to stay for a while in the White House by Mrs Roosevelt, she started work on four novellas, drawn from the characters she had met and the scenes she had observed, full of the poignant details and heartbreaking stories that had no place in official reports.

The result, The Trouble I’ve Seen, is one of her finest books. Hailed as the literary discovery of the year, reviewed with respect and admiration in virtually every city of the US, Gellhorn appeared on the cover of the Saturday Review of Literature and was mentioned by Eleanor Roosevelt in three separate My Day columns. Writing in the Herald Tribune, Lewis Gannett noted that the book ‘lives and dances in the memory’.

Mrs Maddison

I. MRS MADDISON MAKES BOTH ENDS MEET

MRS MADDISON STOOD before the mirror and tried tipping her hat first over the right eye and then over the left. The mirror was cracked and Mrs Maddison’s reflected face looked a bit mixed up. But the hat was clear. It was of white straw, the pot shape that is cheapest and commonest; it had cost thirty cents and Mrs Maddison herself trimmed it, with a noisily pink starchy gardenia, in the centre front, like a miner’s lamp. This flower was only pinned on (safety-pin inside, rubbing a little against Mrs Maddison’s forehead) and therefore nodded as she walked, bowed before she did, and occasionally blew from side to side, petulantly. It was her best hat. With it she wore a dress of dark blue voile, with white squares printed on it, and a piece of tough machine lace making the collar. She also had white wash gloves, only one of which she wore because the other had been darned beyond endurance. Everything was very clean, very stiff; her shoes had been whitened and she had borrowed paint from one of the fishermen to rim the soles and worn heels. She got her hat on finally, deciding that straight across her forehead it looked most dignified. Peering and rising on one foot, she put her rouge on somehow; two carnation-red circles over the soft wrinkly skin. She almost never made this effort; she almost never looked so trim and certain, so easy with herself and the world; a woman who had clothes and a place to put them on nicely. She was going uptown to beg.

‘One thing,’ Mrs Maddison said to the hat, ‘I’m certainly not gonna give anyone the satisfaction of thinking I need things. I’ll get what’s my right but I’ll not have anyone thinking I’m charity.’

There was, in Mrs Maddison’s mind, a certain doubt as to her right; for that reason she put on her best and only clothes, to reassure herself. There was also some snobbery in her dressing. She didn’t want the relief people to put her in the same class with the negroes, who unconcernedly paraded their want.

She closed the front door but did not lock it, having lost the key some time ago and being, anyhow, vague about such matters, with reason.

The path went dustily beside the river, bordered on one side by tin cans, underbrush, moored house-boats, wrecks and the wide, flat, brown sweep of the Mississippi. On the land side, beneath the bluff, sat the shacks of her friends and neighbours. Next door there was Mrs MacIvor and her two boys, further down lived Lena who was a negro, but nobody cared. Then there was the Wilsons’ tent: the Wilsons were not on Relief, Mr Wilson being an artist. He went about the countryside ornamenting beds, and in every negro shack, in every tenant farmer’s slat house, one could see his art, gilt and black scrolls changing a worn four-poster into something half sinful, half circus. Old Maybelle lived in a box made of outworn pieces of corrugated tin roofing; these were temporary quarters. Her houseboat had sunk, and she was still repairing damages prior to moving back into her real home. Maybelle was a great friend of Mrs Maddison; some quality, casual, bright and illegal about them both, held them together.

The path wound up the hillside to town, straight from the ferry landing. Beyond the landing her own children lived and a few fishermen and some people one whispered about; they claimed they were Spanish.

Mrs Maddison waved to everyone she saw. No one asked her where she was going; her clothes announced her intentions.

Maybelle was sitting on the river-bank looking at her houseboat with love and anxiety.

‘Flora,’ she said as Mrs Maddison passed, ‘would Alec help me with the roofing? I’ll have the money next week. Tar paper. But it’s my weight; I’m afraid to get up on the roof, it’s kinda frail, you know.’

Mrs Maddison looked at Maybelle, smiling. Maybelle was her own age, sixty-ish, and a great woman with strength in her arms. She had a weatherbeaten man’s face, rough and browned, and wore her hair twisted tight on her head. She would have shaved it, but that would mean answering questions, and Maybelle disliked questions. She had given up feeling or acting like a woman long ago; but her prestige for having once been a river captain’s mistress followed her still in her old age. She was not fat, but there was a lot of her, muscle and bone; and everything about her houseboat was frail. Mrs Maddison promised to speak to Alec, her son.

The path up the hill was steep. The spring sun, already swollen and hot and ready for summer, beat down on it. Mrs Maddison stopped every once in a while with her hand over her heart, taking her breath in gulps. When her heart was quiet she wiped her forehead with the unworn glove. She did this quickly, not wanting to be seen. She knew she ought to have a handkerchief – it isn’t my fault, she said to herself, crossly; I know how a lady ought to act, but what can I do?

She could see the crowds around the Relief office when she was still several blocks away. She hurried a little from excitement. There was always the chance that some commodities had come in from the north; perhaps some canned beef, or canned milk; perhaps even butter. Or clothes, maybe … she was almost running now, taking small quick steps over the cobbles, but careful, despite her haste, not to get any horse dung on her newly whitened shoes. Clothes: she had in a requisition for a baby dress for her granddaughter. The last ones she’d seen had been sweet; with pale blue French knots on them and little puckered sleeves. Now did they mean the sleeves to be like that, she thought, or was it just those fool women in the sewing-room not knowing what’s the difference between sewing and shovelling coal … it didn’t matter. Those dresses had all been given away before she got in her application slip. She had to be content with three didies the last time. And did she have to lie. She enjoyed herself briefly thinking about that: about the fine scene she’d had with Mrs Cahill, her home visitor. Sticking up for her rights, that’s what she’d done. Couldn’t she tell a lie if she wanted to? Some country when a woman couldn’t lie, doing no harm to anyone. She said to Mrs Cahill: Now you look here, Miss Lucy, I don’t need any clothes for myself, I’m getting on fine, but I gotta right to clothes same’s everybody else. So I’ll just take clothes for my grandchild instead. Mrs Cahill said: Nonsense, you need everything yourself, you haven’t a decent pair of shoes and when I put in a requisition it’s going to be for you. You let that girl Tennessee scrounge around for her own child. I’ll take no bossing from you, Miss Lucy, you’re too young to have any sense. Mrs Maddison said, and who’d know better than me what I need? You just get me things for Tiny, like I said. Mrs Cahill objected that it was against the rules. Rules, Mrs Maddison sniffed, rules – well I never. Mrs Cahill gave up: the office was small; they had a certain leeway in allotting federal commodities and in making decisions. And she knew Mrs Maddison. A woman who wouldn’t be ordered about and who only obeyed when necessary, and then you could feel her chuckling. Lord God, Mrs Maddison thought, I hope those niggers and those begging white folks don’t get everything before I can push my way in.

The Relief office was an unused warehouse: it loitered over a city block, the panes out of the windows, pink paint peeling from the walls, great barn-like doors opening into damp shadows. Little grilles had been knocked into the walls and at these, separately, whites and negroes received their pay cheques, for work done on the roads or in the sewing-room. The negroes leaned against the walls, smoking pipes or stubs of cigarettes, dressed in neat white clothes, shapeless, chatty, able apparently to lean against something in the sun and laugh and talk in half sentences for hours, or days if necessary. The white people were crisper in their demands and never had to wait quite as long. If there were any seats or benches empty, inside the warehouse, they marched in and sat down. They wore their faces according to their needs for the day or their characters. There were quiet women, marked with weariness and resignation: there were angry ones, sitting stiffly as if they didn’t want anyone to think they even approved the chairs in this thieving place: there were plaintive and garrulous and shy men: and Mrs Maddison, elegant with her rose, shoved into the midst of all this and settled herself on a bench, something like a bird perching and something like a ship dropping anchor.

‘Howdy, Miz Crowder,’ she said, bowing to the woman next her. ‘What’ve they got today?’

‘Some lady’s nightgowns,’ Mrs Crowder said. ‘But I’m here to talk about my rent. I don’t want no nightgown; they can keep their old clothes; they feel like burlap those things do. But my landlord sez they don’t pay him and he wantsa put us out. And Harry, like a pretzel with rheumatism and these spring nights.’

Mrs Crowder sighed and Mrs Maddison nodded at her with bright sympathy. She turned to see who else was here, and what they were getting if they were lucky or talked loud enough.

There was that Wilkins man who ought to be shut up in jail for the way he treated Miz Wilkins. The woman was too patient; didn’t step up and speak for herself. One child after another, and each year that woman looked more like something blowing down the street; an old bit of newspaper that’d been rained on. She frowned at Mr Wilkins, who didn’t notice.

She saw a small girl, a share cropper’s child, whom she knew by sight. Mamie was sitting beside her mother, her hands folded in patience on her lap. Every once in a while she blew off flies that circled too close about her