I stood outside the canteen giving myself a brief respite before returning to the incessant cleaning that followed the incessant preparations. I looked out at the new buildings that continued to spring up out of the mud like so many mushrooms. Men were flowing into the base, more and more of them every day, and still it was only the three of us in the canteen. Miss Farleigh had been promised more workers would be sent down from Paris, but we had not seen them yet. In theory we should be working two four hour shifts a day, but in reality, we were all working almost every hour we were not asleep.
I enjoyed the view of the open fields beyond the Center over which the airplanes drove and buzzed like a swarm of angry bees. The fields were fallow now, but I could imagine spring when there would be green grass and crops. I had always felt most myself surrounded by open fields and wide views, like those from the porch of the summer house on Lake Geneva.
Every year as school let out, we took the train to Lake Geneva. There a carriage took us from the train to the wide-spread house with its porches and tower, glinting whitely against the surrounding trees. The bustle of packing trunks, and shrouding furniture which had consumed the house in Chicago, was now done in reverse as the summer help uncovered the furniture and unpacked our trunks. We did not even have to dress for dinner unless special company was coming. This was when all the servants at the house in Chicago took their annual holiday, and even Nanny would disappear for a few weeks before joining us at the lake. And when she did arrive, it was always a more relaxed Nanny, as if her eternal vigilance could take a vacation as well.
Alta Vista sprawled at the top of a hill that commanded a sweeping view of the lake from its wide front porch. The 74-acre estate spread all around us, the best view of these verdant fields from the tower balcony just off the room that Trixie and I shared for the summer. It was narrow, but high, and could just fit two people although Trixie did not like going out on it. I would sometimes creep out during a summer storm just to feel the wind and rain, hoping to see the lightening slash across the sky over the lake. Trixie would alternately stand at the balcony door urging me to come in, then race for the door to the hallway to make sure Nanny or Mamma would not catch me out in the downpour. When I finally came in, she would help me hide my wet clothes at the bottom of the closet until I could sneak them down to the laundry maid the next day, asking all the while, “Why do you do this?”
This was also the place where I briefly saw my grandfather as someone beyond the autocrat of the Sunday dinners. The house was his and Grandmamma’s, and while Grandmamma would come for the summer, he got away from the city only for occasional visits. Like my grandmother our whole family would come for the summer, and often Aunt Sophie and the dreaded Buddy and Sonny would come as well, but in the wide spaces of the lake Trixie and I could avoid them.
While at the lake Grandpapa’s broad forehead seemed to smooth out, his bald head became browned by the sun, and even his beard seeming less stiff and forbidding. One of his favorite spots was on the front porch where he would sit in a white wicker rocker, idly playing with his pocket watch, and looking off into the distance. Since the porch was my favorite spot for reading, he would often find me there ensconced in the porch swing with my skirts tucked up around me. Mamma always told me I should leave if Grandpapa arrived, and I obediently left the first few times our paths crossed. But I soon learned he did not mind my company and I began to stay put whenever he made an appearance.
One day he found me reading “Little Lord Fauntleroy” languidly turning the pages describing the adventures of a poor, but repressively good, little American boy, who captures the heart of his gruff aristocratic English grandfather. I was finding the little boy with golden curls a little cloying, when Grandpapa interrupted me dropping into his rocker.
“What drivel,” he said in his deep voice, pointing to the picture of the perfect little boy in a velvet suit on the cover of the book, an unexpected smile hovering on his lips.
I nodded happily in agreement, ready for an interruption. “You know that fellow Forbes-Leith?” I nodded again, although I really only knew his daughter who was in my cotillion. “He wastes his time running between a castle in Scotland where he fancies himself a baronet and running a mill here in Chicago. He thinks he’s something because he has a castle behind him. It hasn’t made any difference in business.”
It was the first time I could remember having what might actually be called a conversation instead of a pronouncement with my grandfather. “What does make a difference?”
To my surprise he did not dismiss my question but answered me. “Perseverance, hard work, and the ability to see the new thing coming.”
“Did you see a new thing coming?” I asked, feeling very daring as the conversation developed.
“Why steel.”
Of course, I knew this. Even at twelve I knew that the wealth and social position that our family enjoyed in Chicago came from that commodity. I also knew Grandpapa was the president of Illinois Steel, the biggest steel mill in the country. “But what was the new idea about steel?”
“The Bessemer process that makes it possible to produce steel on a large scale. You know the first Bessemer steel rails for the railroad were made at my mill.” I could hear the pride in his voice.
“The mill in South Chicago?”
“No, at another one. That was when the company was called North Chicago Rolling Mill. Long before you were born.”
I was surprised at how interesting I was finding this. The steel mill was hardly ever mentioned at home – in fact it was as if Mamma and Papa lived in an ethereal world in which there were no such thing as base as steel.
“Do you go to the mill every day?”
“Most days. I have to keep an eye on things. But there are some days I take off to talk to inquisitive granddaughters.” He laughed, and I found myself enjoying laughing with him.
An idea came to me. “Can I come and see you at the mill someday? Can I see the steel being made?”
Granpapa looked startled. “It’s hot and dirty and noisy. Not a place for a girl.”
I smiled over at him, feeling like Trixie always looked in social situations, “But I would be with the president of the company, so that would be all right wouldn’t it?”
He chuckled under his breath, and then with a calculating look at me, “Well, I suppose it would be. We’ll arrange it then when summer is over.”
That is how I found myself one morning, dressed in a plain brown dress, my hair carefully braided and tied in bows, waiting for grandpapa’s chauffeured car to swing under our porte cochere. Papa had been puzzled at my interest (“Why on earth Valerie”), Trixie had been perplexed (“Visit a dirty old factory?”), and Mamma had been unhappy (“What do you do these things for?”) But a request from my grandfather was a command, and my visit would take place no matter what anyone thought.
Grandpapa had been the first one in our family to own an automobile, although he still kept horses in the stables in back of his house. As his horses had been the best pair of matched greys that money could buy, his car was also the best, a Pierce-Arrow in which he took great pride. Grandmamma refused to ride in anything but a horse-drawn carriage and had never, as far as I knew, stepped into this car. This was my first ride in an automobile, however, and as I climbed into the back seat beside my grandfather my anticipation was tinged with some trepidation. Our seats were at a higher elevation than the chauffeurs, and as I sunk into the leather I could already feel the adventure of the day begin as we drew away from the yellow brick house. I could see so much more from my perch than I could riding backwards in our carriage. At first, I felt a little shy as it seemed as if everyone was looking at us, but as Grandpapa seemed unconcerned, I soon relaxed. He chatted amicably about the automobile telling me it was a Great Arrow, and then with great pride that it had cost the huge sum of $4,000. He followed that by telling me that it had four cylinders which meant nothing to me, and that it had a 24 horse-power engine. That did mean something. I immediately imagined that I was in a chariot that was being drawn by 24 horses. It was exhilarating. We headed out onto familiar streets which soon changed into unfamiliar streets with a mix of cars, street cars, and horse drawn vehicles. I looked with interest as the houses became smaller and smaller and closer together. We passed store fronts with signs in languages I did not even recognize. Then we were in an industrial area, and looming over everything was the Illinois Steel Plant. It stood belching smoke from huge smokestacks. Railway tracks ran down one side of the plant, and climbing over them on stairs that led into the plant was a steady stream of men. On the far side I could see that it was fronted by Lake Michigan and on the other by the Calumet River where it entered the lake. Large rusting steamers were at the pier on the lake, cranes swinging over their decks with huge loads. The energy of place nearly took my breath away. It was exciting, and I craned to take it all in as our automobile swept around the factory to the rear.
We drove up to a red brick building with a polished wooden door at the side of the plant, and the chauffer jumped out to open the door for his two passengers. We climbed up to a large room on the second floor which was Grandpapa’s office. The room felt powerful and purposeful. There was a huge desk at one end under a window covered with soot from the mill. A large leather chair, worn to fit its owner sat behind the desk. There was a turkey carpet on the floor with two red upholstered guest chairs facing the desk. There was also a large mahogany table on which were scattered papers that looked like plans of some sort.
Grandpapa ushered me to one of the chairs and excused himself for a few minutes to talk to his secretary in the outer office. He returned shortly and asked, “You ready for the tour?”
I nodded and we set off, the roar of the factory becoming louder and louder the further we left the office behind. We entered the huge building and climbed to a catwalk above the working factory. The noise was ferocious, and I reached out and took Grandpapa’s hand. He grasped it looking down at me with an expression I could not read. He began talking but only part of what he was saying came through to me. “Blast furnace…molten iron…limestone…” I was too absorbed in what was going on below me.
It looked like a scene from Dante’s inferno. Huge ladles swung above the floor below. When in position they poured geysers of molten metal, putting off saffron and sapphire flames streaked with a deeper yellow. A fountain of sparks arose as the metal poured down in a beautiful curve, more striking that the best fireworks display I had ever seen. Overhead the beams of the factory reared above us, glowing orange in the reflected light. Tall cranes moved these ladles as men shouted instructions above the roar of the furnaces. The men themselves were yellow where the light struck them and violet in the shadows beyond the light. They sweated and worked with a concentration and expertise that was riveting. I looked over at my grandfather watching the process below us with undisguised pride. His was the hand behind all this. I felt a combination of pride and shame – pride that this all belonged to my family, and shame that I had not known what lay behind the word steel.
I wondered at the men who worked below us in this inferno. Their shirts were soaked with sweat, and their faces and hands grimy. I could see that all the power of this molten metal and my grandfather’s millions rested on the back of these men who confidently tamed the red-hot rivers of metal, turning them into the hardened lengths of steel. It must have been their houses that I had seen on my way to the plant, and their languages that I could not translate on the store fronts. I looked at Grandpapa again. I could tell that these men were nothing more to him than cogs in the machine he had created. It made me feel sad in some way. Why was I born to privilege and money – none of which I had earned – and why were these men working in the heat and danger below me? At least Grandpapa had worked for this, but what was the excuse for the rest of us?
We finished the tour, and I went out into the sunshine of a fall day dazed and with ringing ears in the sudden sunshine and quiet. We went back to his office where lunch was served on the table now cleared of papers.
Grandpapa eyed me over the soup and then said, “You liked that didn’t you?”
Liked? It was much more than that. “It took my breath away,” I blurted, blushing at my impetuosity.
Grandpapa stared at me some more and then said, “That’s how Arthur…...” and his voice trailed off. My heart felt like someone has struck it.
It took me a moment. Then I said in a low voice, “I know.”
There was a pause, and then Grandpapa continued as if he had not heard me. “Your father never cared for this, but that was all right because there was Arthur. My only hope now is James, but I don’t know about him.”
He took another sip of his soup and then said abruptly, “I love this plant, I love what we make, and I love what I have made of it. Everyone else just loves what it buys them.” Another sip of soup. “And if James does not work out there is no one to pass this on to. No one. It dies with me.”
The gleam in his eye dimmed. “Carnegie has sons, real sons. But I have no one. I have been very unlucky in my children.”
“But didn’t Papa…” I started to ask.
But Grandpapa broke in. “Oh yes, he worked here for a while. He got a degree in engineering that I would have given my right arm for at his age. Then he came here, but he never took to it. I set him up at a brick factory after that but then there was that fire…… He gave up on that factory too and retired to stay home and scribble.”
He looked up sharply at me realizing to whom he was speaking and said quickly, “Well, enough of that.”
I looked at my grandfather now industriously intent on cutting his chop and could see the lines of disappointment in this face. “How did this all start…this …this factory and everything?” I asked my mind’s eye seeing the belching smoke stacks, the streams of workers, the sweating men handling the pouring metal, the sheer complexity of the place. It seemed hard to believe that this man across from me was responsible for all of this.
“Well,” he said, shifting in his chair and leaning back. “It all started a long time ago in a small rolling mill where I got a job as a clerk. I worked at night teaching myself engineering and mathematics. I just had a feel for all this I guess. And then ….” He stopped himself and eyed me across the table. “Young ladies aren’t interested in this kind of thing. We should be talking of other things.”
I felt the old desperation come back. “Please, Grandpapa. Don’t stop. I like hearing about this and those young lady things --- well, they are not me.” And then because the day had been like no other in my experience, I let my heart speak before my head. I looked straight at my grandfather and in a rush said, “You don’t need a boy here. I could do this job, I really could. You could just try me out ….” and then my voice faltered as I looked at the incredulous look on Grandpapa’s face. I had gone too far, stepped way outside of my place in the family.
The silence that followed was resounding. It seemed as if the whole world had come to a halt around us. Even the factory seemed quiet. My face flamed as I sat miserably in my chair feeling as if some door through which I had seen a crack of light had slammed shut. Grandpapa, his head lowered, fiddled with some papers in front of him and then got up putting on his coat and hat. Without looking at me he said only, “Time to get you home, or your parents will think I have dropped you into a burning vat.”
The drive home was silent, the car filled with the unrealized dreams of its two occupants. After that day we never spoke about the factory or the making of steel again. Whatever small spark had been ignited on the day of my visit guttered and burned out, for there was no fuel on my grandfather’s part to feed it. I felt that the interest shown by a mere girl only highlighted his disappointment in the men in his family. I became an uncomfortable memory, rather than the warm compatriot I might have been. And I found as my visit to the plant slipped into the past, it was not my grandfather or the molten steel I remembered as much as the sweating, fire-lit men whose houses I had seen, and at whose languages I had wondered.
And yet on my departure to France from Chicago, accompanied only by Nanny, I had turned suddenly on the platform with the eerie feeling I was being watched. Standing at the corner of the ticket counter down the red brick façade from where I waited was Grandpapa. He stood erect, hatted and gloved, his walking stick in one hand. Our eyes met and neither of us moved. Then slowly he raised his free hand in a combination salute and wave. My attention was taken away for a moment by the onrushing noise of my approaching train, and when I looked back, he was gone.