American History Tellers - Roaring Twenties | Rise of the Radicals | 1

Episode Date: September 29, 2021

In 1919, American soldiers returned from the battlefields of Europe to face a nation torn apart by a different war. One-fifth of the nation’s workforce put down their tools and went on strike. Anarchists sent deadly bombs in the mail to congressmen and cabinet members. And a terrorist attack on Wall Street killed dozens.As economic and political turmoil swept the country, government authorities moved to stamp out dissent. Targeting unionized workers, immigrants, and radicals, officials launched ruthless campaigns to drive out what they saw as threats to America.It was the dawn of the Roaring Twenties, a decade of extremes that saw a rapidly changing nation caught between its past and its future.Listen to new episodes 1 week early and to all episodes ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App https://wondery.app.link/historytellers.Support us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's the night of January 16th, 1920 in New York City. You're working the bar of the Vanderbilt Hotel, and it's your final night on the job. Prohibition is set to go into effect at midnight. The bar is packed with revelers. Even though a heavy snow is blanketing the sidewalks, it feels like the whole city is out for one last hurrah. To get the crowd's attention, you tap your bar spoon against a glass.

You have something to say. Everyone listen up. Tonight, we lay rest a dear friend, a constant companion, someone who has been with us in good times and bad. Rest in peace, our beloved alcohol. You tie a black armband around your shirt sleeve and reach down behind the bar to pick up a small coffin you had a friend make for the occasion. You lift it above your shoulders and walk toward the dance floor. All right, all right, give me all your empty bottles and glasses.

Then head to the bar where my fellow barkeeps will be pouring free champagne for everyone. You circle the dance floor, pausing for customers to place their empty glasses in the coffin. Everyone seems to be in a festive mood, except one young man who sits at the end of the bar with his head in his hands. Hey, perk up, kid. It's not that a little champagne can't fix. You return to the bar and pour the sad young man a glass of champagne. He stares into the drink, waiting for the bubbles to subside. Oh, I can't believe this is really happening.

The government's taking away the one place where I can find some peace. I mean, you'd think after the war and the Spanish flu, things couldn't get any worse. But, kid, relax. This prohibition business won't last long. People need their booze. The customer shakes his head and takes a sip. Well, they're not going to get it. Why are you so upbeat tonight anyway?

Aren't you out of a job after tonight? Yeah, it's my last night at the Vanderbilt, but I've got plans. You've got plans, huh? Yeah. You scratch out an address on a scrap of paper and slide it across the bar. Tomorrow night, head down to the basement cellar at this address. Knock three times. The password is bitters.

The young man looks up with cheer and hope in his eyes. He understands immediately what your plans are, then smiles and tucks the address into his pocket. Bitters, huh? Okay, I'll be there. Thanks. That's the spirit. Remember, they can pass all the laws they want, but they can't turn back the clock.

It's the 20s. You pop open another bottle and begin pouring drinks for a group of women approaching the bar. You know there are plenty of people in this country looking backwards, resisting the change that's coming. But you're looking ahead. It's the dawn of a new era with new music, new fashion, even new morals. Nothing, not even prohibition, can stop it. Have you ever wondered who created that bottle of sriracha that's living in your fridge? Or why nearly every house in America has at least one game of Monopoly. Introducing The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast about the surprising origin stories of the products you're obsessed with. Listen to The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app

or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug cartel? Take out a witness? Paul can do it. I'm your host, Brandon Jinks Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers.

Our history, your story. On our show, we'll take you to the events, the times, and the people that shaped America and Americans. Our values, our struggles, and our dreams. We'll put you in the shoes of everyday people as history was being made. And we'll show you how the events of the times affected them, their families, and affects you now. In January 1920, Americans braced themselves for the start of Prohibition. The nationwide ban on the sale of alcohol was just one of many conflicts in a nation increasingly at war with itself. The United States had emerged from World War I and the Spanish flu pandemic only to enter a time of massive political and economic unrest.

Labor strikes paralyzed cities, radical groups set off deadly bombs, and anti-immigrant hysteria swept the nation. Fearing the threat of socialist revolution, the U.S. government launched crackdowns on foreigners, radicals, and union members. It was the start of the Roaring Twenties, a decade of exuberance, prosperity, and dizzying change. In urban jazz clubs and speakeasies, a younger and more diverse generation burst onto the scene, creating a modern and cosmopolitan American culture. But with change came resistance. Many clung fiercely to an idealized American past dominated by the notions of white, native-born Protestants. In previous eras, the most important tensions in American life were regional, economic, or political. But in the 1920s, Americans started fighting bitterly over culture,

drawing battle lines over immigration, gender politics, race, alcohol, and religion. The nation stood at a crossroads between its past and its future. In this series, we'll explore the breathtaking prosperity, cultural extremes, and deep divisions of the decade that gave birth to modern America. This is Episode 1, Rise of the Radicals. On February 27, 1919, President Woodrow Wilson submitted his nominee for a new U.S. Attorney to the Senate.

His pick was a 46-year-old former Pennsylvania congressman named A. Mitchell Palmer, and for the next two years, he would reshape Wilson's domestic agenda in controversial ways. Palmer took office at a tumultuous period. America had just emerged from the twin crises of World War I and the Spanish flu pandemic, only to find itself embroiled in a period of unprecedented labor unrest. As returning soldiers flooded the labor market, industrial employers rolled back many of the gains unions had made during the war. But the unions fought back. The trouble began just weeks before Palmer's nomination with a general strike in Seattle.

Over the course of five days, 65,000 workers, represented by over 100 different unions, walked off the job, bringing the entire city to a standstill. Their demands included shorter hours and an end to the wartime wage controls that had remained in effect since the armistice that brought World War I to a close. Ultimately, the strike collapsed before those demands could be met, but it inspired others like it. By the end of 1919, more than four million Americans, about one-fifth of the nation's workforce, had marched on picket lines. They struck for higher pay, fewer hours, and safer working conditions at a time when industrial accidents killed more

than 20,000 workers every year. Based on his record, many assumed the country's new Attorney General would be sympathetic to these strikers. As a congressman, Palmer had built his political career campaigning for progressive legislation, including women's suffrage, support for unions, and an end to child labor. He was a pacifist Quaker who had turned down the chance to be Secretary of War due to his religious beliefs. But Palmer was also a canny politician who understood that during the war, Americans' view of the labor movement had changed. Many union workers were recent immigrants. Some were from places like Germany, which America had just fought in the trenches of World War I, and others from Russia, where a worker-led

revolution had just installed the world's first socialist government. To many native-born American citizens, these new arrivals were enemies of American democracy, coming into the country not to seek opportunity, but to undermine its institutions. Some politicians explicitly fed on these fears. Seattle's mayor, Oli Hansen, accused striking workers of trying to duplicate the anarchy of Russia. Others denounced the wave of strikes as Sovietism in disguise. Palmer wasn't one of these voices. During his first months in office, he bided his time. Palmer didn't intervene in the strikes or accuse the forces behind them of socialism or anarchism.

But soon, after a series of attacks that came right to his doorstep, he would become the driving force behind a new nationwide crusade against radical enemies of the state. On April 29, 1919, a housekeeper in Atlanta opened a package delivered that morning to her employer, a former U.S. Senator. As she lifted the lid, the package exploded, blowing off both of her hands. The former Senator was unharmed. A similar parcel had arrived the previous day at Mayor Hansen's office in Seattle, but failed to detonate. Over the next several days, authorities intercepted another 36 mail bombs. The targets included Supreme Court Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes,

banker J.P. Morgan Jr., and business magnate John D. Rockefeller. The bombs were timed to arrive on May Day, a holiday celebrated by labor unions and radical groups every year on May 1st. Evidence of a coordinated campaign of terror sparked widespread alarm in Washington and around the country. It was the start of America's first Red Scare, and it wasn't communists alone that were feared. A Red soon became shorthand at the time for a member of

any radical leftist group, whether communist, socialist, or anarchist. But at first, none of these groups claimed credit for the bombs. Soon, though, federal investigators traced them back to followers of a notorious Italian anarchist named Luigi Galliani. Galliani had been active in the United States since 1901, the same year a self-proclaimed anarchist assassinated President William McKinley. Through Galliani's underground newsletter, Subversive Chronicle, he advocated for the violent overthrow of capitalism and organized government. He and his followers have been implicated in the bombings and other attacks against business leaders and politicians

dating back to 1914. New Attorney General Palmer ordered his Justice Department to investigate the Gaglianists. Then, on June 2nd, a bomb exploded on the doorstep of Palmer's home in Washington, D.C. Palmer and his wife were asleep upstairs and escaped unscathed, but much of their home was destroyed. That same night, other bombs went off in seven major U.S. cities.

The perpetrators left behind flyers that declared, there will have to be bloodshed. We will do anything and everything to suppress the capitalist class. The attack on his home and family shook Palmer to his core. Soon, the pro-labor pacifist who had turned down the role of Secretary of War would launch a new kind of war at home, one that would earn him a new nickname,

the Fighting Quaker. Imagine it's June 1919. You're an assistant to Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer, and you're standing alongside him in the wreckage of his Embassy Row home in Washington, D.C. Just a few days ago, an explosion tore through the front of the house. Palmer looks around sadly at the scorched debris. Ah, God. You know, this used to be my library. Thousands of rare books, gone in an instant. I don't know what to say, sir. I'm just glad you and Mrs. Palmer were unharmed. Yeah, yeah. Let's just see how many books survived the blast. Hand me that one over there. You and Palmer spend a few minutes pulling intact books out of the rubble. But this salvaging effort doesn't seem to cheer up your boss.

If anything, his mood only grows darker. You would think my record these past months would have kept the target off my back. I've limited the arrest of radicals. Ordered the release of 10,000 suspected German sympathizers. I've voiced my support for unions. And what do I get? You've done very well protecting the rights of Americans, sir. All of them, native-born or otherwise.

I don't understand it either. But I think as long as you exercise the same restraint as you always have, not the restraint. Look around you. My wife and I barely escaped death. This is not a time for restraint. No, no, no, no. Palmer crosses the room to examine the blown out windows. He gazes out of them toward the front steps,

which are stained with blood. The bomber died there when he detonated his explosive prematurely. For a moment, your boss appears lost in thought. Then, he seems to make a decision. No, not at all. Call a meeting. I want the head of every bureau in my office by this time tomorrow. This was an organized attack, so we must organize to provide a coordinated response. Of course, sir. Can I tell them what you have in mind? Well, that's what we'll be discussing.

I believe I'm going to ask Congress for a bigger budget. More raids on known anarchist groups and subversives of every kind. Sir, are you sure that's wise? I worry that if we overreact, it'll just fuel the violence. They may even want this sort of response. No, no, don't you see? The American people are clamoring for a response to these attacks. Nothing we do now will be seen as an overreaction.

They've misinterpreted the politics of this entirely. These anarchists have given me a blank check, and I intend to cash it. You feel like you're seeing your boss with fresh eyes. He's always been ambitious, always eager for a fight that will get him headlines. And you've long known that his ultimate goal is nothing less than the White House.

But you never imagined you'd see Palmer's ambition come at the cost of his progressive values. But this bombing, at his doorstep, has unleashed something in him. You're afraid of where it might lead. After the April and June bombings, Palmer's Justice Department asked for and got a boost in congressional funding to investigate foreign radicals. To do so, Palmer created a new agency known as the General Intelligence Division and placed a 24-year-old lawyer named J. Edgar Hoover in charge. Over the next year, Hoover used spies and informants to infiltrate leftist groups, amassing 200,000 files on suspected radicals.

But even as Palmer and Hoover began their work hunting down radicals, American workers continued their radicalization, rising up against their employers. In September, three-quarters of Boston police went on strike for union recognition and better wages and working conditions. Massachusetts Governor Calvin Coolidge ordered state troops into Boston to end the strike by force. Coolidge warned, there is no right to strike against the public safety by anybody, anywhere, anytime. Americans applauded Coolidge for his firm stance against the striking policemen. But just days after the Boston police officers went on strike, 365,000 steel workers

across America walked off the job. Steel was the foundation of American industrial power, and the strike sparked hysteria in the nation's newspapers. They warned that a Russian dictatorship of the proletariat was coming to the United States. Then, two months later, an even larger strike. 400,000 coal workers picketed. Palmer, no longer an ally to labor unions, declared the strike unlawful by invoking the Lever Act. The bill had been passed during the war and made it a crime to interfere with the production of essential goods. Coal was one of those. But miners stayed off the job anyway. The strike continued until they won a 14% wage increase. Labor strikes were growing in number

and in size, and many Americans feared the nation was on the verge of a Soviet-style workers' revolution. It was against this backdrop that Palmer made his biggest move. On November 7, 1919, the two-year anniversary of the Russian Revolution, he launched what became known as the Palmer Raids. Palmer chose to target the Union of Russian Workers, an anarchist organization founded in 1908 by Russian refugees. Despite its radical origins, though, by 1919, most of its members were apolitical and had joined the Union for its social and educational services. Still, federal agents swept through 12 cities, storming various offices of the Union. Hundreds of immigrants were arrested in the raids. And then just days later,

the political and social divisions in America sparked a shocking incident of violence in the Pacific Northwest logging town of Centralia, Washington. On November 11, 1919, veterans with the Hyperpatriotic American Legion broke away from an Armistice Day parade and stormed a meeting hall belonging to the International Workers of the World, a leftist labor union. The leader of that group, Eugene Debs, was serving a two-and-a-half-year prison sentence for speaking out against the war, so the Legionnaires considered members of the IWW, called Wobblies, to be unpatriotic traitors and decided to run them out of town. The confrontation did not go well.

A gun battle erupted, and when the shooting stopped, four Legionnaires were dead. Some townspeople overpowered the Wobblies and locked them in jail. But later that evening, a mob broke into the jail and seized a Wobbly who was also a World War I veteran. They brutally beat him, tied a rope around his neck, and hanged him from a bridge, later using his corpse for target practice. Even though the Legionnaires had started the attack, a jury would later convict seven Wobblies for murder.

The incident became known as the Centralia Massacre. And as news of the violence spread, vigilante mobs took inspiration and attacked IWW halls throughout the country. Meanwhile, Palmer continued his efforts to rid American soil of foreign leftists and anarchists. In the early hours of December 21, 1919, Palmer's men rounded up more than 200 immigrants from their prison cells on Ellis Island and crammed them onto an army transport ship. The prisoners were all members of the Union of Russian Workers, but few had committed actual crimes. Still, Palmer's men deported them to the Soviet Union, forcing them to leave behind wives and children. The press celebrated the deportations,

dubbing the ship the Soviet Ark. As a decade of turmoil and trauma came to a close, the violence seemed like it would continue into the next decade. Workers and their fight for rights were under siege, but vowed to step up their organizing and protests. And Attorney General Palmer was planning to intensify his crusade against radicals, determined to stop at nothing until all enemies of American values, real or perceived, were rounded up and expelled. Dracula, the ancient vampire who terrorizes Victorian London.

Blood and garlic, bats and crucifixes, even if you haven't read the book, you think you know the story. One of the incredible things about Dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century, but it also has so much resonance today. The vampire doesn't cast a reflection in the mirror. So when we look in the mirror, the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities. From the host and producer of American History Tellers and History Daily comes the new podcast, The Real History of Dracula. We'll reveal how author Bram Stoker raided ancient folklore,

exploited Victorian fears around sex, science, and religion, and how even today we remain enthralled to his strange creatures of the night. You can binge all episodes of The Real History of Dracula exclusively with Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus and The Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. I'm Tristan Redman, and as a journalist, I've never believed in ghosts. But when I discovered that my wife's great-grandmother was murdered in the house next door to where I grew up, I started wondering about the inexplicable things that happened in my childhood bedroom. When I tried to find out more, I discovered that someone who slept in my room after me, someone I'd never met, was visited by

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If you haven't listened yet, head over to Apple Podcasts to hear for yourself. On January 1st, 1920, a new decade dawned. An Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer prepared for an all-out assault on radicalism. In a New Year's Eve address, Palmer pledged that the Justice Department would keep up an unflinching, persistent, aggressive warfare. He called communism a distinctly criminal and dishonest movement, branding its followers in the United States enemies of the government, of the church, and of the home. Palmer swiftly fulfilled his promise, authorizing his deputy J. Edgar Hoover to lead the largest round of Palmer raids yet. They targeted anyone with known or suspected ties to communist and

socialist organizations. Recent immigrants with those ties, however tenuous, were especially vulnerable to Palmer's attack. Imagine it's the night of January 2nd, 1920, in Detroit. You're running down a corridor in the Hall of the Masses, the headquarters of the local Socialist Party. You've just come from your job at a cigar factory, and you're late to your night class in mathematics. It's one of several courses offered here at the hall, which serves as a local community center. So sorry I'm late, guys. The instructor shakes his head and gestures toward an empty seat. You sit down and take a pen and notebook out of your bag, scanning the chalkboard to catch up on the material. You're hoping to learn enough to become a bookkeeper so you can better support your wife and daughters.

Since you emigrated from Russia, it's been a dream to make sure your children can go to college. The instructor is still writing out an equation on the chalkboard when you hear a commotion back out in the hall. The instructor stops his chalky scratching, and he and all the classmates turn curiously towards the door. Suddenly, it's kicked open, its frame splintering and glass shattering. Half a dozen police officers rush towards you. You stumble backwards as one of the policemen herds you and your fellow students into a corner. Then he turns his attention to the file cabinet and bookshelves at the front of the classroom. Oh, what do we have here?

He knocks over the shelves, sending textbooks tumbling onto the floor. Officer, they're just arithmetic books. The policeman narrows his gaze and walks towards you. What did you say? Please, we've done nothing wrong. Nah, I'll be the judge of that. You're under arrest. On what charge? You're a radical.

No, I'm a citizen. I'm here attending math class. Oh, sure you are. What's today's lessons? How to sabotage our democracy? Mathematics! Turn around. The policeman shoves you against the wall and handcuffs you behind your back. Your classmates look on in fear as the officer marches you out the door. As you emerge into the hallway, you see a dozen others also standing helplessly in handcuffs. You've done nothing wrong.

They've done nothing wrong. And each one of them probably has wife and family waiting for them at home. How will this end? On January 2, 1920, federal agents and local police conducted simultaneous raids in 33 cities. They descended on meeting halls and private homes, rounding up more than 4,000 suspected radicals. The raids were designed to look carefully coordinated. But in reality, agents and local law enforcement, given little direction and no list of suspects, made arrests indiscriminately and locked up prisoners without charges. Any non-citizens arrested were given swift deportation hearings with no legal counsel.

The prisoners were crammed into federal detention centers and makeshift prisons where they endured grim conditions. In Detroit, 800 suspected radicals were detained for a week in a narrow, windowless corridor of a federal building, forced to share a single toilet and water fountain. For the first 20 hours, they were given no food, until frantic relatives brought meals for them. In Boston's frigid Deer Island prison, 400 prisoners were detained in conditions so brutal that two men died of pneumonia and another leapt five stories to his death in an attempt to escape. But despite their brutality, the majority of the nation's newspapers supported the raids. A New York Times editorial declared,

The more of these dangerous anarchists are arrested, the more of them are sent back to Europe, the better for the United States. And the Washington Post affirmed, There is no time to waste on hair-splitting over infringement of liberty when the enemy is using liberty's weapons for the assassination of liberty. But curiously, there was one liberty American politicians had agreed must be infringed. While Palmer and his agents were hunting down the nation's radicals, bars, restaurants, and liquor stores across the country were getting ready for the onset of Prohibition. It had been one year since the ratification of the 18th Amendment,

banning the manufacture and sale of liquor. The Volstead Act, passed by Congress to enforce the ban, mandated that Prohibition officially go into effect at midnight on January 17, 1920. Across the Northeast, people braved snow and sub-zero temperatures, packing bars and city streets to down one last drink. Liquor stores offered bottles at going-out-of- business prices, and saloons staged mock funeral services. Prohibition was the end result of a century-long temperance crusade. Support for the abolition of alcohol had grown after America's entry into World War I. Prohibitionists argued that grain should be conserved for the war effort, rather than be

wasted on alcohol production. In addition, many breweries were owned and operated by German immigrants, and Prohibition groups exploited anti-German sentiment, promoting the idea that beer drinking amounted to treason against the war effort. Prohibition also grew out of a nativist desire to control the immigrants and workers that congregated in urban saloons. Journalist H.L. Mencken, famous for his sharp wit, declared Prohibition as rooted in the yokel's congenital and incurable hatred of the city man. But almost as soon as Prohibition began, the federal government struggled to enforce it.

Liquor trade quickly went underground. Americans turned to illegal speakeasies run by bootleggers or they concocted crude homebrews and bathtub gin. The staggering profits reaped through the sale of illegal alcohol fueled organized crime. And for the rest of the decade, stories of gang warfare and mobster murders would dominate the nation's newspapers. This same growing nativism and persecution of immigrants that fueled Prohibition and

the Palmer Raids also influenced America's actions on the world stage. On March 19, 1920, the Senate took a final vote on the Treaty of Versailles, the peace agreement that formally ended World War I. The treaty terms included American membership in the League of Nations, an international organization that President Woodrow Wilson believed would pave the way to world peace and mutual cooperation. But after years of war and increased suspicion of foreigners and immigrants, many Americans were exhausted by U.S. entanglement in global affairs. Wilson's dreams for the League of Nations were dashed

when the Senate voted against ratification of the treaty. To many, it was a vote that signaled America's retreat from the world. And throughout the remainder of 1920, President Wilson's spirits, popularity, and health declined following a stroke he suffered in 1919. Attorney General Palmer sensed an opportunity. Even though his boss, President Woodrow Wilson, had indicated he would like a third term, Palmer announced on March 1st he was running for president. But as Palmer stepped up his anti-radical crusade, some began to question his harsh tactics and the political motives behind them. Shortly after Palmer's

announcement, in early March, Louis F. Post became the acting Secretary of Labor, responsible for handling immigration and deportation cases. After an investigation, Post canceled more than 1,500 deportations on the grounds that they were illegal. In response, congressional Republicans tried to impeach Post, and Palmer doubled down on his fear-mongering rhetoric. And as May Day 1920 approached, Palmer raised the alarm to new levels, warning Americans to expect mass violence. But when May 1st passed without incident, Palmer lost credibility. By this time, thousands of Americans had been arrested and denied access to attorneys,

while many more immigrants had been separated from their families, detained, and deported. Later in May, a group of prominent lawyers published a report accusing Palmer of utterly illegal acts which have struck at the foundation of American free institutions. Congress brought them in for questioning, and the American public grew increasingly skeptical about the threat of radicalism. But later in that spring, anti-immigrant sentiment bubbled up to the surface once again, in connection with a robbery and double murder in Massachusetts that became one of the decade's most notorious crimes. On April 15th, two men, a paymaster and a payroll guard, together carrying more than $15,000, were shot dead outside a shoe factory in South Braintree,

near Boston. No witnesses saw the culprits, but police quickly focused their investigations on local radicals. Three weeks later, they arrested a 32-year-old shoemaker named Nicola Sacco and a 29-year-old fishmonger named Bartolomeo Vanzetti. Sacco and Vanzetti were Italian immigrants who were followers of Luigi Galeani, the radical anarchist who had inspired the April and June bombings in 1919. The two men were indicted for robbery and murder on September 11th. Five days later, about 200 miles away from Boston in New York, lunchtime crowds thronged Wall Street, the symbolic heart of American capitalism. A horse-drawn wagon pulled up outside the headquarters of J.P. Morgan & Company,

one of the nation's biggest banks. Moments later, it exploded. A huge cloud of smoke billowed into the air. Trolley cars were knocked off their tracks two blocks away. Glass shards crashed down on through the blood-stained streets. The blast killed 38 people and left hundreds seriously injured. At the time, it was the deadliest terrorist attack in American history. Moments before the explosion, a postal carrier had discovered flyers sticking out of a mailbox. They declared,

Remember, we will not tolerate any longer. Free the political prisoners, or it will be sure death for all of you. The flyers were signed, American Anarchist Fighters. Attorney General Palmer soon arrived on the scene. He tried to use the bombings to restart aggressive investigations and raids, but this time he was drowned out by calls for restraint. In a turnabout from its earlier opinion,

the New York Times affirmed there should be no yielding to panic, urging Palmer to treat the Wall Street explosion like an ordinary criminal case. And there was restraint. Despite the shocking violence of the Wall Street bombing, the attack did not spawn rise in nativist hysteria. Opinion had shifted, and Palmer discredited. And in the three years since the Bolshevik Revolution in Russia, Americans had seen no real evidence of a large plot to overthrow American capitalism or the U.S. government.

Most figured the bombing was the work of a few deranged madmen, not the product of a socialist conspiracy. Nevertheless, Palmer's agents combed the wreckage on Wall Street for clues. It was the start of three years of fruitless investigations. The Wall Street bombing would never be solved, and over time, it faded from American memory. Still, by the time this Red Scare subsided, anti-radical crusaders had accomplished many of their goals. Membership in American communist political parties and the IWW plummeted. Prominent leftist and immigrant voices were driven underground, and nearly 10,000 were arrested in the Palmer Raids and hundreds

deported. But back in Boston, the two Italian anarchists Sacco and Vanzetti still awaited trial for murder, a trial that would divide the nation between those who saw the two immigrants either as convenient scapegoats or conspirators in a massive anti-government plot. How did Birkenstocks go from a German cobbler's passion project 250 years ago to the Barbie movie today. Who created that bottle of red Sriracha with a green top that's permanently living in your fridge? Did you know that the Air Jordans were initially banned by the NBA? We'll explore all that and more in The Best Idea Yet, a brand new podcast from Wondery and T-Boy. This is Nick. This is Jack.

And we've covered over a thousand episodes of pop business news stories on our daily podcast. We've identified the most viral products of all time. And they're wild origin stories that you had no idea about. From the Levi's 501 jeans to Legos. Come for the products you're obsessed with. Stay for the business insights that are gonna blow up your group chat.

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It was an order. I'm your host, Brandon James Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. By the summer of 1920, Americans had grown wary of the endless turmoil of war, labor strife, and political radicalism. And with a presidential election approaching, they were looking to change things at the ballot box. For eight years, President Woodrow Wilson had governed the nation with high-minded ideals and intellect. Wilson had entered office championing progressive crusades at home and abroad, ushering in economic reforms and grandiose plans for global peace. But as voters prepared for the election of 1920, they were ready to cast aside Wilson's internationalism. Above all else,

they yearned for stability. They would find their answer in Republican Senator Warren G. Harding. Harding was the son of a poor Ohio farmer, a former small-town newspaper editor who had become one of the most well-liked politicians on Capitol Hill during his time in the Senate. He was tall and imposing, with handsome features and a head of smooth silver hair. To many Americans, he looked presidential. Harding's warm and genial nature won him many friends and allies, but he was ultimately lacking in political experience and intellect. He was well aware of his mediocrity, admitting, I am a man of limited talents from a small town.

In a campaign speech in May, Harding summarized his campaign, declaring, America's present need is not heroics, but healing. Not nostrums, but normalcy. Not revolution, but restoration. Not agitation, but adjustment. Not surgery, but serenity. A prominent Democrat criticized his speeches as an army of pompous phrases moving across the landscape in search of an idea. But Americans took comfort in Harding's promise of a return to normalcy. Republican Party leaders put forward Massachusetts Governor Calvin Coolidge as Harding's promise of a return to normalcy. Republican Party leaders put forward

Massachusetts Governor Calvin Coolidge as Harding's running mate. Coolidge was a man who became synonymous with law and order during the Boston police strike the previous year. The pair ran on the Republican Party's most conservative platform in two decades. Hoping to run against them, Attorney General A. Mitchell Palmer sought the Democratic nomination, thinking his leadership during the Red Scare had earned him enough political capital to capture the White House. But he never recovered from his hysterical warnings about mass violence on May Day. At the Democratic Party convention, his critics twisted his Fighting Quaker nickname, calling him the Quaking Fighter. The convention rejected his bid in favor of Ohio

Governor James Cox and the little-known Secretary of the Navy, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. When Americans went to the polls in November of 1920, Harding easily won the presidency, capturing more than 60% of the popular vote. The 1920 election signaled a rejection of progressive, reform-minded politics. It was also the final nail in the coffin for America's participation in the League of Nations, which Harding wholeheartedly opposed. In March 1921, Harding took the oath of office and America turned inward. Two months later, the trial of Italian immigrants Sacco and Vanzetti began in Dedham, Massachusetts.

By this time, the case was about more than murder and robbery. The state resolved to prosecute the pair's radical beliefs, too. Imagine it's June 1921 in a courtroom at the Norfolk County Courthouse in Dedham, Massachusetts. You're a district attorney for the Commonwealth, and today it's your job to cross-examine Bartolomeo Vanzetti for his role in last year's Braintree robbery and murders. The physical evidence in the case isn't as strong as you'd like, but as you approach the witness stand, you glance over at the jury. Twelve upstanding citizens, all white Protestant men like you, carefully selected from a pool of 700. You understand these men, and you know you can persuade them that these Italian radicals are guilty. You begin your questioning. Mr. Vanzetti, you said you left Massachusetts in May 1917 for Mexico,

and that was to dodge the draft? Yes, sir. So when this country was at war, you ran away so you would not have to fight. I did. Vanzetti stares at you defiantly as he answers. It strikes you that he's proud of his actions, which plays right into your hands. Do you love this country, Mr. Vanzetti? Yes, sir. Did you love this country in May of 1917? That's pretty hard for me to say in one word. Well, there are two words you can use, Mr. Vanzetti. Yes or no. Which one is it? Yes. You glance over at the jury. Several members are shaking their heads in disbelief. You give them just a slight shake of your own head and turn back to Vanzetti. And your idea of showing your love for America is running away when it needed you?

Yes. I don't believe in war. That gets a rise out of the spectators in the gallery, which the judge quickly silences. But you can sense now that the whole room, including the jury, is on your side. You don't believe in war, Mr. Vanzetti? No, sir. When I refused to go to war, I didn't refuse because I don't love this country. I would have refused even if I was in Italy.

Even if you were in Italy. Mr. Manzetti, do you think what you did was cowardly? No, sir. Do you think what you did was brave? I do. You look over at the jury foreman and can tell he's seething. Your work here is done. No further questions, Your Honor.

You smile and return to the council table. It's undeniable that the fingerprints and ballistic reports won't be enough to prove Sacco and Vanzetti's guilt. But you didn't get where you are today without being able to read a jury. And any fool can see the distrust of these outsiders splashed across their faces. There's no doubt in your mind, you're going to win this case. The trial of Sacco and Vanzetti began in May 1921. The prosecutor capitalized on the defendant's political views, drawing special attention to their draft dodging during World War I. The physical evidence against Sacco and Vanzetti was flimsy. The pair's fingerprints did not match those collected at the scene,

and a ballistics test of Sacco's gun proved inconclusive. Eyewitnesses for the prosecution came up with a string of dubious accounts. But it was perhaps the judge who helped the prosecution's case the most. He dismissed witnesses who were offered as alibis for the defendants and then made the trial's themes clear with his marching orders to the jury. He instructed them to do their duties in the spirit of supreme American loyalty. In July of 1921, the jury returned a guilty verdict. The judge sentenced Sacco and Vanzetti to execution. Liberals, intellectuals, and leftists were outraged.

For the next six years, the case dragged on as Sacco and Vanzetti's supporters launched a series of appeals. But in the end, the pair would die in the electric chair. Reacting to their deaths, one writer declared, We are two nations. The trial of the shoe peddler and fishmonger brought into sharp focus bitter divisions in American life. These divisions became federal law on May 19, 1921, when President Harding signed the Emergency Quotas Act into law. This act established an annual quota system for new immigrants and was the first U.S. law ever to numerically limit the number of immigrants entering the country. Then, in 1924,

Congress passed an even more strict quota law. The Johnson-Reed Act was designed to favor Northern Europeans over Southern and Eastern Europeans and completely closed the door to all Asian immigrants. It was a watershed moment, marking the end of more than a century of mass migrations that had brought millions to U.S. shores. The United States had closed its doors and turned its back to the world. But the conflict over immigration was just one of the many battles being fought over American identity in the 1920s. There was also a growing divide between urban and rural culture and between younger and older generations. As the decade progressed, more Americans streamed into the nation's growing cities, where they

cast tradition aside and shed the social mores of their parents. Women, in particular, were shortening their skirts, chopping off their hair, and kicking up their heels in public like never before. It was the beginning of the Jazz Age, and a daring new generation was about to seize the spotlight. On the next episode of American History Tellers, women win the right to vote with the ratification of the 19th Amendment. African Americans migrate from the Deep South to the cities of the North, bringing jazz music and the artistic flourishing known as the Harlem Renaissance. But rapid social change sparks a violent backlash

as the Ku Klux Klan spreads terror across America. From Wondery, this is Episode 1 of Roaring Twenties for American History Tellers. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. If you'd like to learn more about the Roaring Twenties, we recommend the book New World Coming, The 1920s and the Making

of Modern America by Nathan Miller. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham, for Airship. Audio editing by Molly Bach. Sound design by Derek Behrens. Music by Lindsey Graham. This episode is written by Ellie Stanton, edited by Dorian Marina. Our senior producer is Andy Herman. Our executive producers are Jenny Lauer Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn,

and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reach the age of 10 that would still have urged it. It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn Trials, I'll be uncovering a story of abuse and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely Pacific island

to the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts or Spotify.