The Hadenford Furniture Works
An Allegory Dedicated to Those Who Toiled and Died Under Appalling Conditions
© 2010 Tim Fort
NO matter how old and senile I become, I will never forget the events of that fateful day in 1913 which have become indelibly burned into my memory. I was born into a middle-class family in Winona, Minnesota, but had grown up in Eau Claire, Wisconsin and matriculated from the University of Wisconsin, Madison, with a degree in Latin. My impression as a youth was that the American Republic was truly dedicated to the freedom and prosperity of the average man. I really did believe in all those jingoistic, flag-waving platitudes, especially during the Fourth-of-July parades in my hometown. I was just starting out in my professional career, working as a Deputy Inspector for the newly-created Michigan Department of Worker Safety.
All that would change on the day of September thirteenth. I had been on the job less than two months as an undercover inspector for the Department. I had signed on in the altruistic belief that I would help elevate the status of the working man. My first assignments were easy; I cut my teeth inspecting small dairies, bakeries, mom ‘n’ pop businesses, and the like. I was mildly disgusted the abuses I saw in those places, but nothing had prepared me for what I would see on my first major assignment. The Triangle Shirtwaist fire in Manhattan a couple of years previous had sparked a reform movement of sorts out East, but I truly didn’t believe that sort of sweatshop environment didn’t exist outside the Garment District.
That day in September was cold and cloudy over much of southeast Michigan, and my new assignment lay under a still, leaden sky. The factory was built on the north side of Detroit in an industrial district near a muddy and polluted creek known to the locals as Stigg’s River. It was a large red-brick factory, nine stories tall, with a large “Hadenford Furniture Works” sign on the top, and it was shrouded in coal smoke from the many smokestacks in the area. There were many small windows on the façade but I couldn’t see into the factory from the distance as they appeared to be closed to the outside world. There were six or seven railroad tracks that criss-crossed the macadam road leading into the Works. When I was working my way across the tracks, a steam switcher locomotive pushing several tank cars seemed to materialize out of nowhere and I had to scurry for my life. At the moment, I didn’t recognize it as a foreboding of things to come.
I was, of course, traveling in mufti and had dispensed with my usual dress. I was wearing a white cotton shirt under a cheap brown suit, an old celluloid collar, and an eight-panel cap on my head. Upon my feet were a worn pair of dark suede work shoes over grey woolen socks. That morning, I didn’t take my usual shave, but tried to look scruffy instead. I had naively thought that I could pass myself off as the seedy owner of a small-town furniture store as I climbed the stairs leading to the public entrance and entered the showroom.
The showroom itself was reasonably respectable looking if one ignored the fact that the décor was strictly 1880s vintage. It had a pressed tin ceiling and a clunky brass cash register that hailed from a previous generation, but the showroom itself was kept immaculately clean. The walls were covered with dark mahogany wainscoting and paint that was once cream-colored but had faded to a dingy grey over the decades. The furniture on display was arranged in large glass cases.
I was informed by my supervisor that this was a strictly non-union shop and it showed in the eyes of the women who worked the showroom. They were conservatively attired in somber dresses that came to their ankles, and all of their hair were done up in buns. None of them smiled or seemed to have any vitality whatsoever, and almost all of them appeared to be immigrants or otherwise not part of the Anglo-Saxon patriarchy.
My supervisor had given me some background information before I accepted my assignment. The owner of the factory, Elijah P. Hadenford, was a conservative businessman from Ohio who resided in a splendid Victorian mansion up in Grosse Point. He was known to one and all as a devout Presbyterian and was considered a patron of the arts as well.
I had inquired about buying several roll-top desks for my non-existent furniture store, but the clerks acted suspicious towards me when I asked if I could take a brief look at the manufacturing process. In retrospect, I think they were able to tell that I was a college boy in spite of my efforts to conceal my learned accent. They kept their eyes down-turned when they spoke to me, as if embarrassed to be seen with me. They were evasive about letting me into the factory itself and were reluctant to even arrange for me to speak with a supervisor.
The crusty old matron who supervised the clerks wore a plain black dress and sensible Oxford shoes. She had a mean, spiteful look whenever she looked my way which was too often for comfort. It appeared I wasn’t getting anywhere, and I feared the Department would have to send another guy. Unexpectedly, a clerk stepped out of a side office and whispered something to the matron who followed her into the office. I felt a tap on my shoulder, followed by a low female voice inquiring in a faint Eastern European accent, “What are you really doing here, Mister?”
I turned and looked. She was a blonde, of obvious Slavic descent, and was wearing a violet-colored dress with small white flowers on it. She had a wan smile and a certain defiant look to her face, and was easily the prettiest girl among the clerks. I bent slightly and replied quietly, “I’d like to see more of the factory, if I may.”
She steered me towards a quiet corner of the showroom. The other clerks briefly glanced in our direction, then pretended that they didn’t see us. She looked towards the office door and said in a nervous voice, “I can help you, but you must promise to take me away from here. I’m taking a very big risk in helping you and I’ll probably be fired–or worse–for it.”
I knew of no other way to gain entrance, so I weakly promised, “I’ll see what I can do, Ma’am.”
The other clerks were still pretending to not see us when she pushed hard upon an unmarked panel in the wall which, to my surprise, swung open. She pushed me inside, then quickly swung the panel closed behind her. I found myself on a very narrow staircase. It was made of wood that had warped over countless years, was very rickety looking, and had a thick layer of dust on it. It was dimly lit from a couple of windows that were covered with whitewash. Cobwebs were everywhere and they looked as if they were seldom disturbed.
The clerk informed me that this was the factory’s only fire escape, but that the doors leading to the other floors were locked or completely boarded over. Then she formally introduced herself. “My name is Ludmilla Andrcek, but my friends call me ‘Milla’. I could be severely beaten for helping you, but I just don’t care anymore. You must tell me who you are if you want me to help you.”
I replied, “I’m Alan Weber with Department of Worker Safety. Our statistics show that several workers were killed or seriously injured over the last few years in this factory. I’m here to see if there are any serious code violations.”
“Code violations? Hah! You don’t know the half of it. If the outside knew what was really going on in here, that bastard Hadenford would hang for it–and I’d push that evil sonofabitch through the trapdoor myself!”
I could see through the dim light that she had a fiery look to her eyes. She seemed rather smart for somebody working such a menial job; I figured that if she helped me, I might find a clerical position for her in our department. I asked her, “I’d certainly appreciate your help, if you’re not offended by being alone with an unmarried man.”
“Nothing offends me anymore. I absolutely hate this hell-hole of a factory and will do anything to help you–if you promise to do something about helping me.”
I winced as I gave her my word–I didn’t really have any pull within the Department–but I perceived that I could put my trust in her. As we started climbing the dust-covered steps, I noticed that, even though her violet dress was a cheap mail-order one, she lifted the hem to avoid getting dust on it.
The stairs were in severe disrepair and I feared that I would break through on some of the steps. We peeked through a gap in the warped wooden boards that covered the exit to the second floor. The floor was almost completely covered with piles of wood with very narrow walkways between them. I noticed that the ceiling was wood, held up by foot-thick wooden beams held up on wooden posts. Sawdust was everywhere; I could even smell it in the air that filtered through the gap. Other than that, there was nothing much to see on the second floor.
Likewise, there was another small gap in the boards covering the third-floor exit. I noticed, to my horror, that the shop floor had a slight sag to it in the middle. The work area was very crowded, with wood-working machines and exposed drive belts everywhere. The men were working at a fevered pitch without any rest. Several small boys were pushing brooms or running supplies to the men. Above all, the noise was deafening and I wondered how anybody could work for any length of time without going stone deaf. It looked like a very dangerous place to work indeed.
The exits to the fourth, fifth, and sixth floors were completely covered up and we couldn’t see anything. However, I heard the foremen barking orders at the workers over the din of the machines inside. Milla explained that the men in the factory were paid by piecework and that most received about five or six dollars a week, minus any debt owed to the company store.
The seventh floor was crowded with many boys, colored and immigrant, who were hand-sanding wooden furniture parts too small to be sanded by machine. I noticed, too, that this floor had a sag in it as well. I saw that most of the boys had bandages on their hands and several of them were coughing from the sawdust in the air. Milla informed me that the youths worked twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, for a weekly pay of two to three dollars. I started to become very angry at Mr. Hadenford and wondered if I should contact the Gerry Society.
The eighth and ninth floors were more of the same. There was plaster covering the boards over the exit, but I could see a little as the plaster was cracked with age. These floors were where the furniture received its final finish. My eyes stung from the fumes that permeated the plaster barrier. It was a toxic mixture of turpentine, linseed oil, and other noxious chemicals. None of the men and boys working those floors had any sort of gauze mask or respirator of any kind. On the ninth floor, I was able to read a sign that was posted on a wooden beam, “NOTICE: Any employee caught talking on the job will be dismissed immediately. The Management.”
As Milla and I worked our way back down the fire-escape stairs, something that I had noticed throughout my trip had worked its way from the back of my mind to my full consciousness. I had noticed that many of the workers were missing fingers, a few had eye patches, and most had visible scars. Horrified, I asked Milla if they were injured on the job. She informed me that they were, but that was the least of it. Workers who lost a limb on the job were given a hundred dollars severance pay and dismissed immediately. The widows of those killed on the job were lucky if they got five-hundred dollars compensation. My disillusionment was so strong, I started to feel queasy in the stomach.
We managed to make our way down to the bottom of the fire escape without actually falling through the stairs until we came to a small door which Milla informed me led to the outside. She said it was padlocked shut, but that the bolt holding the lock had long rusted and had broken off. She kicked the door leading to the outside hard and it sprung open. As we emerged from the fetid air into the outside, I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. It was as much from the horrors I witnessed inside as it was from the foul air I had breathed for the last hour.
In spite of herself, Milla’s dress was dusty and dingy, but she vainly tried to brush off the dirt. My lungs were starting to hurt from breathing in the cold September air and I was psychologically unnerved by what I had seen. Then Milla started to cry. “Oh, please, please, Mr. Weber, please help me! I dare not go back inside. I know the other girls are going to cover for me the best they can, but Mrs. Pharicy is probably looking for me right now. I don’t fear getting fired from this miserable place, but if she catches up with me, I might be arrested and even beaten by Pinkerton men!”
I replied in a hoarse voice, “I promised I’d help, didn’t I?”
She had a look of desperation in her tear-filled eyes. “Yes, you did, Mr. Weber! I don’t care much for myself, but I have a mother to provide for.”
I held her left hand in mine, and tried to calm her down. I vowed to myself, that even if I couldn’t get her work in the Department, I would do something to help her. I talked Milla into going with me to a nearby restaurant where we could talk things over. As we crossed the railroad tracks towards a working-class neighborhood, the clouds had briefly parted, and the mountains of coal surrounding the industrial district gleamed and looked almost beautiful in the smoky sunlight.
We made our way up a hill to a small restaurant, Magdalina’s, just outside the industrial area. It was a shabbily genteel place where the tables and chairs were old and worn, but well cared for. The proprietress had filled the place with potted plants and used old theatrical posters to cover up the cracked plaster. Magdalina had seated us near the front window where we could look down at the industrial district that was back to being grey now that the sun had been blotted out again. At least Milla’s back was to the window so she didn’t have to look upon the industrial district while she dined.
We ordered a simple meal of corned beef hash and coffee, and I offered to pay for it. As Magdalina went back into her kitchen, I got a chance to get better acquainted with Milla. I found her to be a very intelligent woman, despite her humble roots. Now that she was out of the dim light of the factory, I saw, too, that she was a very lovely woman. Since she was liberated from her job, for better or worse, she let down her hair which was quite long and beautifully contrasted with her violet dress. She had deep brown eyes under her thick brows, and I have to admit that I was starting to get smitten by her.
Her parents had emigrated to America from Bohemia in the 90s, seeking the fabled streets lined with gold. I told her she spoke excellent English for a foreigner. She blushed and informed me that she had attended high school in Pittsburgh where she excelled as a student. Her family had even hoped to send her to college. Sadly, her father was killed in an accident at the steel mill where he worked, and now that she and her brother were providing for her mother and an aunt, she was forced to work at the Hadenford factory.
She told me that recently there was some labor troubles at the factory. There was a reduction in the piecework price paid to workers, and they were agitated. The International Workers of the World had tried to organize a union, but they were brutally beaten down. Two of the Wobblies, Lazaro Bocelli and Emil Rodanski, were rumored to have been beaten to death by Pinkerton’s men and their bodies burned in a furnace. According to the local constabulary, though, the two men had fled the country for fear they would be arrested for being Anarchists.
After we finished eating our hash, Milla looked deep into my eyes. “I hope you make good on your promise to help me, Alan. I took a very big risk in approaching you, but I’ll do anything to see that bastard Hadenford gets punished.”
I smiled. I was already starting to fall in love with her, not just for her beauty but also for her fiery nature. Not many people would have taken the risk she had, so I reassured her, “I’ll do whatever I can to help you and your family.”
She smiled broadly and for the first time that day she had a happy look to her. She clasped my hand in hers and answered, “I trust you, Alan. You’re a good man.” I suspected that she was starting to feel some fondness for me as well.
At that moment, our reverie was broken by the hellish clanging of a large brass bell. We looked out the window just as four white Belgians galloped by towing a pumper unit with steam billowing out of it and firemen clinging to the side. It was soon followed by two more clanging pumper units and a Maxwell truck. I slapped a couple of silver dollars on the table, then Milla and I rushed out the door to see what the commotion was.
It was hard to place the fire at first due to the permanent shroud of coal smoke in the industrial district. I thought I noticed a red flicker from the roof and windows of the Hadenford factory, but there was some room for doubt. I felt an overwhelming urge to get closer and reassure myself that it was just my imagination. From the wild-eyed look on Milla’s face, she had felt the same.
We ran down the hill until we got to the macadam street that led to the Hadenford Furniture Works. An electric shock went through me as my eyes confirmed my worst fears. As we approached, the fire increased in intensity and had broken through the front wall. All of the windows had broken from the heat, and it appeared that most of the nine floors were completely ablaze. Milla, tears streaming down her face, covered her eyes, and implored, “Oh, God, no, no, no!”, then mumbled a prayer in Czech.
My gaze was completely fixated upon the terrible sight before me. I will never, ever expunge from my memory the terrible sight of men and boys, their bodies engulfed by flames, leaping from the windows and smashing upon the cindery ground below. The factory, a tinderbox and tragedy waiting to happen, had simply exploded in flame. The firemen managed to hoist a few ladders, but it was to no avail as men were already on fire as they tried to climb on the ladders. After burning for little more than fifteen minutes, the building collapsed in upon itself, killing several firemen in the process. Milla’s face was a ghastly white, and I was so sickened by that horrific sight that I vomited on the ground.
I would later learn at the trial that the fire was started accidentally on the third floor. According to a badly-burned eyewitness, a worker had started it by accident. Frustrated by a fuse that kept blowing on the electric motor for his lathe, he had replaced the fuse with an Indian-head penny. When the motor shorted out completely, it sent sparks everywhere, including a vat filled with flammable solvent. When he tried to beat out the flames, the rickety table upon which it rested collapsed, sending flaming solvent streaming all over the floor.
When the flames reached the fourth floor less than a minute later, the sawdust in the air exploded and the building quickly became engulfed in flames. Portions of several upper floors had collapsed as well, dumping several men into the third-floor inferno. Of the 442 people known to be in the factory at the time, 359 were killed or missing, and 43 were injured. Only five men and one boy from above the fourth floor were known to have survived.
To this day, I still have terrible nightmares of that hellish fire. I was so disillusioned by the aftermath that I would quit the Department of Worker Safety only a couple of years later. In spite of mine and Milla’s testimony, justice was not served at the trial. The blame for the obstructed fire escape and lack of extinguishers fell completely upon the two foremen who had survived. They both received sentences of twenty years in prison. Mrs. Pharicy, the matron, was sentenced to two years at the State Reformatory for Women for not allowing the showroom clerks to leave for several minutes after the fire had started.
Not only wasn’t Elijah P. Hadenford punished for any wrongdoing, he was also greatly compensated by his insurance company for the loss of his factory. The papers depicted that damnable scoundrel as just another poor victim of the disaster. Hadenford only showed up at the trial for a couple of days’ worth of testimony before departing on a hunting expedition to Brazil that lasted two years. The State of Michigan did enact an Occupational Safety Reform bill that had some teeth to it a year after the trial, so a little good did come of the tragedy after all.
As for Milla and I, we married later that year before a Justice of the Peace in a small town in the Upper Peninsula. After I left the Department, we moved, with Milla’s mother and aunt, to Windsor, Ontario and started a family. We raised our three children with a healthy fear of organized religion and the ruling class in general. Since Milla and I were associated with the labor movement, we decided to remain outside the United States for several years after the Palmer Raids. During the Depression, we moved back to America and helped organize laborers in Flint against GM during the awful strikes of ‘37.
As for Hadenford, he lived to a ripe old age and never once publicly expressed regret for the infamous Hadenford Fire. When he died in 1940, he received a proper church burial, and the Presbyterian minister who delivered the eulogy said that he would be counted among the Elect on Judgment Day. Milla and I visited his mausoleum once during the Second World War to spit on the bastard’s grave. We noticed with great irony that one of the Biblical inscriptions carved on the mausoleum’s walls was, “Ye cannot serve God and Mammon”.
The End