The World Wars and the Depression

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Jay Winter

The treatment and interpretation of major questions in the social history of Europe between 1914 and 1918 have been transformed since 1980. One way to characterize the shift of research interest and publication in this field is to summarize (and caricature) social history as the history of defiance and cultural history as the history of consent. This is a wild over-simplification, but like most, it has a grain of truth in it. Another formulation distinguishes social history as the study of social stratification, civil society, family life, and social movements; and cultural history as the study of language, idiom, representations, and images. However this distinction is nuanced, these two overlapping areas of study have increasingly diverged.

Divergence is not divorce, and it is critical to recognize the extent to which the social history of cultural life and the cultural history of social stratification overlap. It is probably best in a survey of relevant literature to mark out the terrain as described in the form of intersecting concentric circles of scholarship in which the mix of social and cultural history has become irreversible.


Labor militancy: Social history as history of defiance. In World War I studies, the transition from an emphasis on social history to an emphasis on cultural history occurred between the 1960s and the 1980s. In the 1960s and 1970s, labor militancy was a subject of central importance to European historians of all periods. World War I was a terrain on which new forms of industrial militancy were played out because the war undermined the legitimacy of traditional political and economic structures. In Britain, James Hinton's The First Shop Stewards' Movement (1973) clearly anticipated a second movement—financial and electoral domination of the party—which, alas, never materialized. Ross McKibbin's The Evolution of the Labor Party (1974) showed what trade-union muscle meant, although he was careful to distance himself from claims made by others that clause 4 of the 1918 Labor Party constitution was a real statement of political will and aspirations rather than an electoral ploy to graft middle-class socialist sprouts to a pragmatic trade union tree. Clause 4 committed the party to work to secure the public ownership of industry. But this wartime commitment in principle did not bind the party to postwar action.

On the Continent, much seminal work in the history of labor militancy in wartime appeared at this time. Jean-Louis Robert began his path-breaking study of militancy among Parisian metalworkers. Leopold Haimson gathered together a wide group of historians interested in tracing the upsurge of agitation and protest during the war years. The study of the reemergence of revolutionary movements in central Europe grew in parallel, at times taking biographical form or, as in the case of Jürgen Kocka's powerful study of increasingly bitter class conflict in Germany, the form of an analysis of the compression of the class pyramid. Here the crucial issues were the emiseration of the lower middle class and the growing confidence and anger of workers about wartime inequalities in provision and entitlement. Barrington Moore made an important intervention in this field in a book entitled Injustice (1978).

"The dignity of defiance" is a phrase used to try to capture the essence of what these scholars were after (Winter, 1986). In their search, they provided us with powerful scholarship on the complex fissures in societies led by governments proclaiming national unity. But the emphasis on the history of labor militancy has not weathered well. The reasons for this are complex. Among them is the linkage between such scholarship and the more general, theoretical debate on Marxism that occurred at this time. Many historians doubted the validity of a model that "read" political militancy directly off data on social stratification and inequality.

The language of soldier writers. Marxist approaches to the history of World War I were still visible, but in their place there emerged a set of concerns the origins of which are elsewhere. Whereas diplomacy, strategy, political conflict, military mobilization, and war industry had long been staples of historical presentations of the war, these aspects of World War I had rarely been presented to the profession or to the general public as cultural phenomena, as having been encoded within rich and complex images, languages, and cultural forms. Now was the time for this kind of history to be told.

There was another set of reasons for the emergence of this kind of scholarship. By the late 1970s many scholars came to the subject of the cultural history of the 1914–1918 war through their reflections on the Vietnam War. For a number of American scholars, the debacle of Vietnam entailed a trajectory from innocence to experience, from anticipation to an outcome very remote from expectations. Where had this happened before? The question drew them to the battlefields of the Somme and Verdun and Passchendaele.

The bitter taste of war was a personal matter to some of these scholars, men who had served in World War II. It is no accident that two of the most important works in this field, Paul Fussell's massively influential The Great War and Modern Memory (1975) and Samuel Hynes's A War Imagined (1991), were produced by an infantry officer wounded in Alsace in 1945 and an airman who served in the Pacific War, both of whom also wrote powerful autobiographies about their war service.

Fussell and Hynes helped transform the social history of the 1914–1918 war. Fussell in particular set in motion an avalanche of studies, which gained momentum in the twenty-five years following the publication of his study. Fussell claims that the language of prose and poetry dominant in prewar Britain was unable to accommodate the experience of the trenches. A number of writers therefore turned older forms around and produced a language of ironic force that not only described the landscape of the 1914–1918 war, but also came to serve as the grammar of later literary imaginings of war. In effect, the way we saw war at the end of the twentieth century was through the prism provided by the soldier-writers of the 1914–1918 conflict.

War literature, Fussell posited, was located on the knife edge between the realistic mode of writing, in which the hero's freedom of action is the same as the readers', and the ironic mode of writing, in which the hero's freedom of action is less than the readers' and in which the hero is trapped in a world of unreason and mass death. Frequently, these ironic writers turned to myth to inscribe their view of betrayal, disenchantment, and loss.

Hynes spoke of the anger that soldier-writers directed at the older generation who had sent them out to a war they, the elders, never had to see. By spreading the range of cultural reference well beyond the small canon of war poets and writers discussed by Fussell, he analyzed the power of memorials and anti-memorials to galvanize opinion about the conflict. Above all, his emphasis was on soldiers' language, bearing with it the authority of the witness, of the man who had been there, the authenticity of direct experience.

Women and gender, family, and commemoration. One facet of the achievement of these scholars was a direct departure from earlier writings on World War I. Fussell and Hynes wrote masculine history: the history of men at war and the language they developed to try to ascribe meaning to their world. Women rarely inhabited that world. Consequently, the power of this cultural history tended to move scholarly discussion away from a centerpiece of the earlier social history of war, namely, the history of women and gender.

A shift of emphasis did take place, but it should not obscure the development of robust and powerful scholarship on the history of women and war. Mary Louise Roberts's Civilization Without Sexes (1994) and Susan Kent's Making Peace: The Reconstruction of Gender in Interwar Britain (1992) showed the cultural and political consequences of the war. The fluidity of gender roles was hard to deny: witness the critical part women played in agricultural work and the new positions they occupied in heavy industry. But as the Higgonets and others argued in No Man's Land: Gender and the Two World Wars (1987), a shift in women's roles rarely led to an increase in women's power, since war entailed a heightened sense of the significance of what were seen as "masculine" values. Thus the "double helix" of gender preserved the prewar distance between the degrees of freedom men and women enjoyed.

For no intrinsic reason these approaches tended to become antagonistic. Many studies of women at war concentrated on the munitions industries and the new array of tasks women had to accomplish under the pressure of war. They were responsible for the house or farm and employed in war-related production or as substitutes for male farm laborers. In central and eastern Europe, they had to cope with scarcity of a kind not registered in Britain or France that meant standing in endless lines for rations they might never see or scavenging in the countryside for food or fuel. In addition historians of the family contributed to our knowledge of the reconfiguring of gender roles in such a way as to preserve the patriarchal family the soldiers left behind.

What a different story there was to tell when the family in question was the brotherhood in the trenches. Important studies of trench newspapers, produced by ordinary soldiers and speaking their own language about the war were produced for Italy, Britain, and France. This kind of fictive kinship—based on love and suffering, to be sure—endured in the interwar years and spread into the fields of veterans affairs and politics. George Mosse and Antoine Prost contributed seminal works on the ways in which what Mosse called "the myth of the war experience"—or soldiers' tales about their war—encapsulated prewar cultural and political traditions and came to fashion much of postwar representations of what had happened between 1914 and 1918.

One unsettled dispute about the nature of the soldiers' war concerns the degree of control they exercised over the conditions of their lives. Tony Ashworth, in an early study, Trench Warfare: The Live and Let Live System (1966), asserted that the war of position involved tacit truces and informal arrangement whereby both sides avoided shelling latrines or disturbing breakfast time. In an extension of this argument, Len Smith's Between Mutiny and Obedience (1994) showed how French infantrymen engaged in informal negotiations with their officers about what kind of gains in an offensive justified what level of losses. A sense of "proportionality" determined the extent and limits of soldiers' tolerance of orders. Thus the French mutiny of 1917 was an explicit statement of what had been implicit throughout the war. An entirely different approach is that of Eric Leed, whose No Man's Land (1979) documents soldiers' impotence in the face of a new kind of industrial warfare. The truth probably lies in a blend of these two interpretations.

The overlap between social history and cultural history in late-twentieth-century writing on World War I is perhaps most explicit in the discussion of commemoration, where comparative work dominated the field. Discussions of local forms of social agency and pilgrimage paralleled work on secularized religious language in rhetoric and sculpture. Most research moved away from national generalizations about commemoration as political manipulation and toward the decoding of messages frequently fashioned in decentered ways that ascribed some kind of meaning to the disaster of the war.


The capacity of social history to withstand the incursions of cultural historians is more evident in studies of the interwar period than in the case of the two world wars. Three areas of scholarly debate produced much of substance in the social history of interwar Europe. The first concerns the sources of the political defeat of organized labor in the 1920s and 1930s; the second concerns the social consequences and costs of the interwar depression; and the third concerns the nature of family life and domesticity in this period. While all three subjects entail explorations of cultural issues, older paradigms relating to class structure and class struggle are still evident in the literature.

Labor in retreat. The spirit of the old Second International—the prewar Socialist confederation created by Marx and Engels—was smashed on the outbreak of war in 1914. After the armistice, some of the idealism at the heart of the European labor movement was reborn. But in the following two decades, caught between Stalinism on the one hand and Nazism on the other, that political and moral configuration of aspirations clustered under the heading of "labor movement" was defeated time and again. First came the counterrevolutionary movements in central Europe in 1919 and 1920; then came the eclipse of labor in Italy followed by the fascist seizure of power. Then came a host of struggles in the democratic countries to defend workers' living standards and jobs in a period of chronic depression before 1929 and of acute depression between 1929 and 1933. The latter year saw the Nazis in power in Germany. Labor, and ultimately democracy itself, was defeated in Austria, in Czechoslovakia, and after a brutal three-year civil war, in Spain.

The question is, why so many defeats and so many setbacks? One set of answers relates to the evolution of communism and the relation between European communist parties and the Soviet Union. This is the domain of conventional labor history, which has replicated in scholarship many of the ideological conflicts of the period under review. Some scholars argued that defeat was built into faulty leadership; others countered that a vanguard became separated from the rest of the working class.

A second debate concentrated not on the organization of labor but on the social structure of the working class it purported to represent. Here considerable attention was paid to the decline of the old staple industries out of which much of the militant leadership of labor came. But it was not only the demise of the older industrial sectors that weakened labor, it was also the growth of the service sector, and of white-collar employment as a whole. Clerical workers did not have the same outlook as did manual laborers; it was very difficult to link up their grievances or to make common cause when one set of workers was threatened with job losses. The failure of the British General Strike of 1926 exposed these fissures in the world of labor; they remained exposed throughout the interwar years.

The costs of the Great Depression. The question of the effects of the onset of mass and sustained unemployment has drawn much scholarly attention. Most of such work concentrates on urban poverty, despite the fact that a decline in the price of primary products devastated rural economies, in particular in eastern and southern Europe.

In the West, industrial decline was the key problem. Social policy initiatives were launched throughout Europe to try to soften the blow of unemployment. Their effects are disputed. One area of controversy is that of public health. There is a paradox to be resolved here. On the one hand, millions of working people lived on inadequate wages and social transfer payments. Deprivation was unmistakable in every European capital city. And yet some measurements of well-being that relate to health—infant mortality rates and life expectancy at birth—seem to have declined in a period of aggravated poverty and widespread distress. How was this possible? Some scholars have pointed to the difference between long-term economic trends, leading to higher survival rates especially at the earliest years of life, and short-term trends of grinding poverty. This position suggests that the onset of mass unemployment in the interwar years did not undermine fully the long-term trend toward better nutrition and better health in many parts of Europe.

Other scholars disagree. They point out that aggregate statistics rarely reflect lived experience. Furthermore, it is probable that some groups lived longer but with chronic illness as their fate. Populations can have deteriorating health conditions and increases in life expectancy at the same time.

When different age groups are analyzed, a possible resolution of these different interpretations emerges. Unemployment is not one phenomenon but many. There is considerable evidence that it damages the health of pregnant women and the unborn, who bring their deprivation with them, as it were, throughout their later lives. The capacity of adults to resist and survive deprivation is greater. For the elderly, unemployment brings increased vulnerability, since it diminishes the resources of the support systems—social agencies, family members, and other elderly people—on which they rely.

The effect of mass unemployment on the unemployed themselves is an area less well researched. Some scholars have followed the spiral of despair into crime and prostitution. Others have considered the possibility that a cycle of deprivation kept the less well educated and the less well nourished people trapped within areas of heavy joblessness. The better educated and fitter therefore were able to leave and find a better life elsewhere. Who was left in the old urban industrial belts? Only those with few chances and fewer hopes. They intermarried and perpetuated the disadvantages of poverty.

Here is a possible resolution of another puzzle: why were there aggregate improvements yet no reduction of inequality? While overall survival chances increased in the population as a whole, the demographic disadvantage of being born into a manual working-class household as opposed to a professional household was maintained. Perhaps out-migration of the better educated and healthier helped maintain the demographic disadvantages of working-class life.

This position does not lack its critics either. Some have pointed out that there are undertones of eugenics in this form of reasoning. It suggests that there was a kind of propagation of disadvantage through selective migration and marriage patterns. The unfit stayed behind; the fitter and brighter got out of the old working-class ghetto. What was called "the residuum" before 1914—the bottom 10 percent of the population—appeared to be a self-perpetuating community. Blaming the poor for their own poverty is an old conservative gambit, critics say, and the explanation for persistent levels of inequality are located in the indifference of ruling elites to the fate of those most vulnerable to the swings in the labor market that produced unemployment rates of between 50 and 90 percent in some depressed regions.

Family, marriage, migration, and gender. In interwar Europe, fertility rates dropped to record lows. Many commentators voiced fears of "race suicide"; some injudicious prophets posited that in the year 2030 there would be four people left in Britain. Even when we brush aside such panicked reasoning, there is still much left to explain. Why was it that family size was at an all-time low, and given the appearance in the mid to late 1930s of some resurgence in birth rates, why was the decline in fertility at an end?

At this point we enter a field in the history of the family and the history of gender in which cultural norms are crucial. Family life was not egalitarian in this period. If we want to know why fertility went down, we need to interrogate the evidence about the attitudes and behavior of men and women differently.

Here there are many unknowns. One of the most glaring is the propensity of women to resort to abortion. Illegality precludes accurate estimates of the practice, but throughout Europe, it must have been an important way in which women kept their family size at manageable levels. A second unknown is the range of contraceptive practices and the ways different sectors of the population resorted to them. We simply cannot conclude that there were national uniformities in contraception.

Patterns of nuptiality are also difficult to specify with any degree of certainty. It may be the case that with the closing of the gates to unrestricted immigration to the United States and with it the end of the vast movement of European out-migration of the period 1880–1920, millions of young marriageable men were "trapped" in Europe, thereby preserving marriage rates. The upheavals of the labor market and the downturn in world trade also made non-European receiver states less likely to welcome newcomers. Some minimal relief was offered to victims of persecution in the later 1930s, but most of those who wanted to get out of Europe were trapped there at the end of the interwar years.

There remains the question of a notable upward inflection of birth rates in the mid to late 1930s. Some argue that these changes were a reflection of the end of the world economic crisis. Others consider that they were responses to the appearance of population policies favoring families and a rising birth rate, in particular in Fascist Italy and Germany. The problem is that the period of slightly increasing fertility was too brief to reach any firm conclusions. It is perhaps safest to conclude that it is unlikely that the "baby boom" of the post-1945 period began before World War II.


The social history of World War II is not as well developed professionally as is the social history of World War I. This difference may reflect the relative nearness of Hitler's war. Time may rectify this imbalance.

The range of subjects central to the social history of the 1939–1945 war overlaps only in part with work done on World War I. There are similar studies of military and civilian mobilization. The activity of women in all corners of the war economy has been investigated too. Social policy in wartime has been the subject of extensive research, drawing on parallels and divergences with World War I literature.

But there are two features of the social history of the Second World War that break new ground. First is the issue of resistance and collaboration. Second is the matter of the social history of the Holocaust as seen through the eyes and lives of its victims. Both entail complex problems of interpretation and of commemoration.

Mobilization for total war. The social history of mass mobilization after 1939 describes terrain similar to that of the 1914–1918 war, but in Hitler's war, everything was heightened and deepened. Both coercion and consent brought populations to a level of participation in war industry never before realized. The numbers mobilized and the numbers killed were higher than ever before. Aerial bombardment brought cities into the front lines. The occupation of virtually the entire European continent created administrative networks linking the German war effort and its requirements to the resources of conquered states.

Within wartime Germany, a remarkable degree of mobilization was maintained despite intensive Allied bombardment of German cities. Nutritional levels were higher for German citizens in the 1939–1945 war than in the 1914–1918 conflict, and many studies have pointed to the success of the regime in keeping together a society under increasing pressure the longer the war went on. Clearly, the regime operated through terror. But it also commanded respect and, among a part of the population, a degree of legitimacy that commanded consent.

Women at war. The mobilization of women on the land and in the factories was even more marked after 1939 than it had been after 1914. There is some dispute, though, as to the effect of women's activities in wartime on their long-term status as citizens. To be sure, women did get the vote in France in 1946, and the role of women in the resistance was part of the background to this long-overdue development. But the arduous effort required of women to balance child rearing, housework, and extradomestic employment may have impelled them back toward a more singularly domestic definition of their lives and aspirations. Thus a kind of "inner migration" toward family life and away from economic and political independence may describe women's trajectories in the period during and after World War II.

Social policy in wartime. War entailed the invasion of the household by the state. Partly this was a reflection of the air war. When whole city blocks were flattened, emergency services had to rehouse and rehabilitate as best they could. In addition, the medical services had to be centrally organized and distributed, diminishing significantly the independence of medical practitioners. In the case of Britain, prewar anticipation of civilian casualties in air raids produced the first full survey of medical services in the country. This was a prelude to the creation of a National Health Service after the war.

Similar steps were taken in every wartime country. The state expanded to include areas of activity previously in private hands. Historians call this the "concentration effect" of war. Its consequence was a "threshold effect," whereby the costs of social services rose to a level entailing permanent financial commitments. In turn a threshold was passed in the tolerable level of personal taxation, a threshold that was maintained in the postwar years. Many local studies provide much of value on this theme.

Collaboration and resistance. These issues describe the social history of World War II as a continuation and intensification of the social history of World War I. But in two respects World War II was terra incognita for historians. The first was in the dialectic between collaboration and resistance within occupied countries. The second was in the social history of the extermination of the Jews.

The social history of collaboration with the Nazis has developed roughly along three lines. The first is the arrival at the center of social and political life of those who had been outcasts in the interwar years. Extreme right-wing groups flourished under the aegis of the Nazis in a way they could never have done on their own. The second is the study of how administrators, both high and low, tended to carry on running affairs within the framework of what was called the "new order." Some of this activity was harmless, or even beneficial. Consider for instance, the ongoing work of the socialist Henri Sellier as mayor of the Paris suburb of Suresnes. Other administrators actively or tacitly aided the Nazis in the deportation of Jews. The work of Maurice Papon in Bordeaux is in this category; he helped in the roundup of Jewish children and consequently has been condemned as a war criminal. The third area of inquiry is in the "normalization" of occupation and the degree of consent given by ordinary people to the new order.

Here we overlap with the social history of the resistance, for the vast majority of the population in occupied Europe lived in conditions that produced a mixture of resignation and submission, on the one hand, and rejection and resistance on the other. The life of François Mitterrand, later president of France, is a good instance of the blurring of distinctions between collaboration and resistance in wartime. He had a foot in both camps, as did many others.

Mythmaking after the war inflated the numbers of those who joined resistance organizations. We must discount much of the oral history gathered after the war about the heroism of the occupied. Heroism there was, but it was the exception and not the rule. This third area of research aims to explain why this was so.

There are moral problems in formulating the question of why resistance was so weak. Historians today have the moral luck to avoid such choices and risks, although some at the time, like the great medievalist Marc Bloch, paid with their lives for their work in the resistance. Can we judge those who did not follow the path Bloch chose? There is little consensus on an answer to this question.

The Holocaust. The same issues plague the social history of the victims of the Nazi plan to exterminate the Jews. Ever since Hannah Arendt provided a stinging indictment of Jewish submission to and (in some cases) complicity in their own demise in her account of the Eichmann trial, the analysis of Jewish responses to the Holocaust has been trapped in the culs-de-sac of justification, accusation, and vilification. Again, we are dealing with excruciating choices that careful scholars can treat only with diffidence.

The social history of the perpetrators has also produced a firestorm of debate. The problem is that some scholars, following Daniel Goldhagen's approach in Hitler's Willing Executioners: Ordinary Germans and the Holocaust (1996), use categories of national character or national traditions as if they were immutable features of historical processes. Blaming everyone who was German for the Holocaust is historical nonsense. But what are the alternatives? Here we return to the question of collaboration, since many of the killers were not German at all. Many of those who committed atrocities were what Christopher Browning in his 1992 study called "ordinary men." The police battalion he studied was composed of men who, when sent to the east, became murderers in no time at all. Jonathan Steinberg's All or Nothing: The Axis and the Holocaust, 1941–1943 (1991) showed that this mutation was not universal; Italian soldiers in Yugoslavia behaved quite differently from German units posted to the same areas. Why the difference? Evil retains its mysteries, still to be unraveled.

Commemoration. The eighth of May is celebrated in most parts of Europe as V-E Day—the end of the war against Hitler. The social history of this commemoration follows in most respects the scholarship surrounding public remembrance of the 1914–1918 war. Soviet war memorials are grandiose and romantic, a throwback to nineteenth-century representations of war, which had already been discarded in western Europe.

National rebuilding after World War II required myths of heroism and resistance. Many of these narratives have a kernel of truth, but little more than that. The need for stories of great achievements had one particularly negative consequence: until the 1960s and 1970s, the story of the extermination of the Jewish people was eclipsed by tales of uprisings and espionage elsewhere in Europe. It is as if the crime of the century was simply too horrible to contemplate. Other stories were easier to swallow, even when they entailed treason. But the problem with Auschwitz was that it could not be treated as if it were just another historical site. Something so monstrous happened there and at the network of camps it has come to represent that ordinary language falls away.

That silence, while understandable, could not be sustained indefinitely, for it threatened to bury the victims once again under a mound of historical indifference. But scholars have yet to formulate a consensus as to how to approach the problem of writing the social history of the enormity of this unique event. Similarly, political and social leaders risk a hail of criticism whenever they offer an idea as to how to commemorate the Holocaust. Debates during the 1990s on a national Holocaust memorial in reunified Berlin are cases in point. Silence will not do; but representations of an allegorical or metaphoric kind are inadequate as well. Since the subject itself brings us to the limits of representation, it is unlikely that any way out of this dilemma will appear in the foreseeable future.


By 1945 the outlines of a new Europe could be discerned beyond the rubble of war. It was a Europe drastically different from that which went to war in 1914. First, it was imprinted with the experience of mass death. Bereavement was a nearly universal experience, as families were torn apart by war. There were gaps in the age structure. Missing were men of military ages and the children they would have fathered; these lost cohorts would take seventy years to work their way through the age structure.

By 1945 Europe was a continent without a substantial Jewish community, leveled throughout Europe and wiped out in large parts of eastern Europe. Other population movements changed the face of the continent. Families of German origin were forced west by the millions. Other refugees found homes in other continents, where another element was added to the European diaspora.

As a result of the war, gender boundaries had been blurred and then reconfigured. The restoration of family life was of the highest priority after 1945, not primarily to politicians but to ordinary people. Given rapid economic recovery after 1945, the baby boom was the result.

The discrediting of the radical right gave a new lease on life to the European labor movement. Hardened by war and essential to the organization of reconstruction, moderate labor leaders moved to the center of the political spectrum. The Communists entered the political mainstream too, largely on the record of resistance in wartime, but, except in countries occupied by the Red Army, they were blocked in their bid for power.

These developments were entangled in the cold war, but some developments superseded it. By the late 1950s there emerged a Franco-German power bloc in which a French political structure—later called the European Community—controlled and harnessed the economic strength of German industry. The aim was to put an end to the threat of war among European states. This it has done, though armed conflict in the Balkans, where war broke out in 1914, returned at the century's end.

The major nightmares of the social history of Europe from 1914 to 1945, war and economic collapse, slowly faded from the European landscape. But in bodies and minds, the scars and traumas of the earlier catastrophes lingered, some of them never to heal.

See alsoMarxism and Radical History; The Jews and Anti-Semitism (in this volume);Health and Disease; War and Conquest; Migration; Fascism and Nazism; The Welfare State (volume 2);Labor History: Strikes and Unions (volume 3);Gender and Work (volume 4).


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