Between 1917 and the 1940s, thousands of women worked in U.S. factories painting luminous dials on wristwatches, something in high demand in and above the trenches of both world wars. The paint they used was made with radium and mesothorium, which gave the dial the coveted glow so prized on dark battlefields. These women were taught that, in order to precisely shape the digits, they needed to draw the paintbrushes to a point with their lips. They were told that there was no danger in doing so and, in fact, ingesting the paint would give them a “healthy glow,” an attitude supported by the influx of radium-infused medicines and products for the home sold in the early twentieth century.
These working women might have been lost to history if it weren’t for the complications that arose from their work. Starting in 1923 former dial painters in New Jersey, Connecticut, and Illinois began appearing at dentists’ and doctors’ offices with a host of alarming symptoms. Anemia. Tooth loss. Necrosis of the jaw. Spontaneous fractures. Bone lesions. Cancer. At first medical professionals under the pay of the radium companies dismissed the claims, discrediting the former dial painters with diagnoses of syphilis. But women working in New Jersey’s Department of Labor, Department of Health, and Consumers’ League didn’t shy from the challenge of working to give recognition and legitimacy to the dial painters’ complaints. Lawyers took up their cases, bringing suits against the radium paint corporations. Some women took settlements offered by the companies, but five, with nothing left to lose, brought their cases all the way to trial. They were dubbed “the Radium Girls” by a sympathetic press and their actions led to a reshaping of labor laws and establishment of industrial safety standards that are in effect today.
Though my dial painters are fictional, their experiences are based on those of very real Radium Girls. I combed contemporary news articles, medical journals, and court documents for details about their cases. I did this not only to make my characters real and vivid, but also to try to understand these women and their tenacity in the face of despair. I hope I have done their story justice. I dedicate this novel to those women who fought on, despite loss and worsening health, so that their children and grandchildren would have safe places to work and live.
I spent the writing of this book communing more with maps, brochures, and postcards than with actual people, but there are a few (people, not postcards) who deserve my utmost thanks.
To Anne Speyer for helping me to sharpen my writing to bring Louise’s story and Ethel and Florrie’s story to their emotional best.
To Courtney Miller-Callihan for her unending trust when, with only a hint of what I was writing, I hid away with my vintage maps and guidebooks.
To Rebecca Paul, for being my sounding board on Arnie’s recovery and therapy. And, also, for being my sister.
To Danielle Lewerenz and Rebecca Burrell for patiently listening to my frustrations, my brainstorming, and my countless “cool history facts.”
To anyone else, friend or stranger, who might have innocently asked, “So what are you researching today?”
Eternal gratitude to Jim, Ellen, and Owen for suffering through my enthusiastic responses to our regular “What did you learn today?” dinner-table question. They are now prepared for any spontaneous water-cooler conversations on early-twentieth-century autocamping. They can thank me later.