(Cambridge Studies in Comparative Politics) Kathleen Thelen-How Institutions Evolve_ the Political Economy of Skills in Germany, Britain, The United States, And Japan-Cambridge University Press (2004)
(Cambridge Studies in Comparative Politics) Kathleen Thelen-How Institutions Evolve_ the Political Economy of Skills in Germany, Britain, The United States, And Japan-Cambridge University Press (2004)
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General Editor
Margaret Levi University of Washington, Seattle
Associate Editors
Robert H. Bates Harvard University
Peter Hall Harvard University
Peter Lange Duke University
Helen Milner Columbia University
Frances Rosenbluth Yale University
Susan Stokes University of Chicago
Sidney Tarrow Cornell University
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KATHLEEN THELEN
Northwestern University
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Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo
Cambridge University Press has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of s
for external or third-party internet websites referred to in this publication, and does not
guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.
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To Ben
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Contents
Preface page xi
ix
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Contents
Bibliography 297
Index 323
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Preface
I am well aware that vocational training is not going to strike some readers
as the most scintillating of topics, but I hope they persevere long enough
for me to make the case that this subject holds many valuable insights
for political economy and comparative politics generally. I myself became
interested in skill regimes as an offshoot of my interest in what defines
and sustains different models of capitalism. Wolfgang Streeck’s pioneering
work first drew my attention to the importance of training in Germany’s
successful manufacturing economy in the 1980s. In the meantime, a broad
consensus has emerged that skill formation is a crucial component in the
institutional constellations that define distinctive “varieties of capitalism”
in the developed democracies and very possibly beyond. This literature has
made it very clear that different skill formation regimes have important
consequences for a variety of contemporary political economic outcomes,
but it had nothing to say about where these institutions had come from in
the first place. This is what I wanted to find out.
The cross-national component of this book, therefore, explores the
genesis of some striking institutional differences across four countries –
Germany, Britain, the United States, and Japan – asking the question:
“Why did these countries pursue such different trajectories with respect to
skill formation and plant-based training?” My research led me back to the
nineteenth century and pointed specifically to differences in the coalitional
alignments among three key groups – employers in skill-intensive indus-
tries (especially metalworking), traditional artisans, and early trade unions.
Along the way, I discovered how the development of skill formation in the
early industrial period interacted with the development of collective bar-
gaining institutions and nascent labor unions and employer organizations
in ways that set countries on different political-economic paths. My analysis
xi
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Preface
Preface
It is a pleasure now to thank the colleagues and friends on whom I have relied
in many different ways over the years in which this book was in the making.
Institutional support was provided by the American Institute for Contem-
porary German Studies, the Kellogg Institute, the Max-Planck-Institut für
Gesellschaftsforschung, Northwestern’s Institute for Policy Research, and
the Wissenschaftszentrum Berlin für Sozialforschung. Separate and special
thanks go to the Wissenschaftskolleg zu Berlin, which provided a most con-
genial setting for the final stages of writing and whose fabulous librarians
and staff made the last steps in the process especially easy.
A number of colleagues and friends took time out from their own sched-
ules to comment on various chapters. My thanks go out to Lucio Baccaro,
Martin Behrens, Hartmut Berghoff, David Collier, Pepper Culpepper,
Gerald Feldman, Jacob Hacker, Hal Hansen, Jeff Haydu, Peter Hayes,
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Preface
Preface
project and her contributions to improving it went well beyond the usual
bounds of research assistance. Sarah Stucky furnished expert help in prepar-
ing the index.
I extend special thanks as well to Margaret Levi for her unending and
inexhaustible enthusiasm for this project and to Lewis Bateman and Cam-
bridge University Press for all they have done to promote and improve this
work. I am grateful to the SK Stiftung in Cologne, Germany, for permission
to use the August Sander photograph on the cover and to Steve Krasner
and Caroline Jones for pointing me in Sander’s direction in the first place.
I have a few personal debts to acknowledge. I begin with three women
who immeasurably enrich my life and lives on both sides of the Atlantic –
Gisela Kühne, Jessica Ticus, and Sandra Waxman. I doubt they know how
incredibly centrally they have figured in sustaining me, not just through
this project but generally and every single day – which is why I am writing
it down. My family has also accompanied me through this process and each
member has contributed in his or her own distinctive way. My wise and
wisecracking teenager Andy knew when and how to inject a little levity into
the mix, and Amelia’s enthusiasm for foreign adventure buoyed me up when
things were difficult. My husband Ben Schneider knows exactly and very
well all the ways he has contributed to my completing this work. In the
unlikely event that he thinks this may have been lost on me, I dedicate the
book to him.
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xvi
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Kanchan Chandra, Why Ethnic Parties Succeed: Patronage and Ethnic Head Counts in
India
Ruth Berins Collier, Paths toward Democracy: The Working Class and Elites in
Western Europe and South America
Donatella della Porta, Social Movements, Political Violence, and the State
Gerald Easter, Reconstructing the State: Personal Networks and Elite Identity
Robert J. Franzese, Jr., Macroeconomic Policies of Developed Democracies
Roberto Franzosi, The Puzzle of Strikes: Class and State Strategies in Postwar Italy
Geoffrey Garrett, Partisan Politics in the Global Economy
Miriam Golden, Heroic Defeats: The Politics of Job Loss
Jeff Goodwin, No Other Way Out: States and Revolutionary Movements, 1945–1991
Merilee Serrill Grindle, Changing the State
Anna Gryzymala-Busse, Redeeming the Communist Past: The Regeneration
of Communist Parties in East Central Europe
Frances Hagopian, Traditional Politics and Regime Change in Brazil
J. Rogers Hollingsworth and Robert Boyer, eds., Contemporary Capitalism:
The Embeddedness of Institutions
John D. Huber and Charles R. Shipan, Deliberate Discretion?: The Institutional
Foundations of Bureaucratic Autonomy
Ellen Immergut, Health Politics: Interests and Institutions in Western Europe
Torben Iversen, Contested Economic Institutions
Torben Iversen, Jonas Pontusson, and David Soskice, eds., Unions, Employers,
and Central Banks: Macroeconomic Coordination and Institutional Change
in Social Market Economics
Thomas Janoski and Alexander M. Hicks, eds., The Comparative Political Economy
of the Welfare State
David C. Kang, Crony Capitalism: Corruption and Capitalism in South Korea
and the Philippines
Robert O. Keohane and Helen B. Milner, eds., Internationalization
and Domestic Politics
Herbert Kitschelt, The Transformation of European Social Democracy
Herbert Kitschelt, Peter Lange, Gary Marks, and John D. Stephens, eds.,
Continuity and Change in Contemporary Capitalism
Herbert Kitschelt, Zdenka Mansfeldova, Radek Markowski, and Gabor Toka,
Post-Communist Party Systems
David Knoke, Franz Urban Pappi, Jeffrey Broadbent, and Yutaka Tsujinaka, eds.,
Comparing Policy Networks
Allan Kornberg and Harold D. Clarke, Citizens and Community: Political Support
in a Representative Democracy
Amie Kreppel, The European Parliament and the Supranational Party System
David D. Laitin, Language Repertories and State Construction in Africa
Fabrice E. Lehoucq and Ivan Molina, Stuffing the Ballot Box: Electoral Fraud,
Electoral Reform, and Democratization in Costa Rica
Mark Irving Lichbach and Alan S. Zuckerman, eds., Comparative Politics:
Rationality, Culture, and Structure
Evan S. Lieberman, Race and Regionalism in the Politics of Taxation in Brazil and
South Africa
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1 Harry Katz and Owen Darbishire make a more nuanced argument about the pace and scope
of common trends (Katz and Darbishire 1999; see also Martin and Ross 1999).
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2 The literature on the political economy of advanced capitalism from the 1970s and 1980s
similarly focused on distinctive national models (for example, Hall 1986, Zysman 1983, and
corporatism theorists of the 1970s). The newer literature on “varieties of capitalism” is an
outgrowth of that earlier work, though with some important theoretical innovations. For
an extended discussion, see Thelen (2002b).
3 In fact, all these various categorization schemes also have trouble sorting the same set of
“intermediate” or hard to classify countries, including France and Italy.
2
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3
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forces” (Streeck 2001: 31). He emphasizes how national models are not the
product of a grand design, and “Ex post accommodation . . . seems to have
been at least as important . . . as a priori calculations of the advantages of
compatibility and complementarity under conditions of interdependence”
(Streeck 2001: 31). Unlike Hall and Soskice’s equilibrium-based view of
institutions, Streeck sees these arrangements as inherently less coherent
and therefore also not at all self-equilibrating, which leads to a picture that
is overall less sanguine about the robustness of such systems. At the same
time, however, and for many of the same reasons, this alternative view would
not necessarily see such systems as vulnerable to the kind of “unraveling”
mentioned above in the event of strong perturbations in one realm.
The premise of this book is that in order to understand the likely fu-
ture of the institutions that make up the different “varieties of capitalism”
we need a better sense of where these institutions came from, what has
sustained them, and what are the ways in which they have changed over
time. This is not the first time these systems have experienced strain, and
understanding how they evolved in the past can yield new insights into the
modes and mechanisms of change through which they continue to develop
today. My analysis focuses on the institutions of skill formation because
they constitute a key element in the institutional constellations identified
by all the authors cited above. In fact, one recent strand of scholarship sees
skills and skill formation systems as causally central to the development and
articulation of social policy preferences generally, and thus foundational for
the development and maintenance of different systems of social protection
across the developed democracies (see, especially, Iversen and Soskice 2001;
also Iversen 2003).
I approach the politics of skill formation from two angles, pursuing both
a cross-national and a longitudinal dimension. First, the cross-national com-
ponent of the study traces the origins of different skill formation regimes,
focusing especially on Britain and Germany, and with only slightly less de-
tailed treatments as well of Japan and the United States. This part of the
book asks the questions: Why did different countries pursue such different
trajectories in terms of plant-based training? And: how did the evolution of
training institutions interact with the development of “collateral” organiza-
tions and institutions – especially labor unions and employer associations,
and industrial relations institutions?
One of the most widely cited differences between “coordinated” market
economies (such as Germany and Japan) and “liberal” market economies
(such as the United States and United Kingdom) is that the former
4
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4 Mine is not the first study to draw attention to these particular cases. As mentioned above,
the different literatures on varieties of capitalism tend to focus on the same basic clusters
of countries. Likewise, in the literature on skills in particular, it is not uncommon to draw
a broad distinction between Germany and Japan on one hand (as “high-skill” economies)
and the United States and United Kingdom on the other (as “low-skill” or strongly skill
bifurcated economies) (for example, Ashton and Green 1996; Brown, Green, and Lauder
2001). This convention follows pioneering work by Finegold and Soskice (1988), who draw
a sharp line between “high-skill” and “low-skill” equilibrium countries, though in the mean-
time this somewhat simplified distinction has been superseded by a more differentiated view
that emphasizes the different types and mixes of skills produced within any one country.
This is also why I adopt the somewhat less normatively inflected language of “coordinated”
versus “liberal” training regimes, which are characterized by different mixes of strengths
and weaknesses in skill formation. See the discussion below.
5 Ashton and Green (1996) propose an explanation of these outcomes that is broadly com-
patible with mine. However their historical analysis is very fleeting (five to ten pages per
country, and in each case covering both plant-based and school-based training). Their ex-
planation of these outcomes hinges on the behavior of highly aggregated actors (“the ruling
class,” the “bourgeoisie,” the “aristocracy”), and the conclusions – although not wrong –
are highly simplified. Many of their assertions (for example, the idea that the Handwerk
sector was “undermined” by industrialization or the implication that unions pushed for
skill standardization against employer opposition) are not consistent with the results of the
historical–empirical research presented here (Ashton and Green 1996: 142–3).
5
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6 For example, Acemoglu and Pischke note that low education entry-level workers are more
likely to get training in Germany than in the United States (Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a:
F129).
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to compete in these markets. As he puts it: “firms that create only those
skills that they need may well end up with less than they need. Cost- and
profit-consciousness are more part of the problem than of the solution”
(Streeck 1992b: 17). In Streeck’s view, cultural or political constraints that
bend the logic of individual market incentives – in this case encouraging
firms to “over invest” in skills – may turn out “to be more conducive to
economic performance under given technological and market conditions
than others” (Streeck 1992b: vii).
Given this posing of the problem, Germany was long considered a
model of successful vocational training and skill formation for the ad-
vanced industrial countries generally. The comparisons to other countries
were mostly invidious (see, for example, Berg 1994; Oulton and Steedman
1994; Finegold 1993). In one important contribution, for example, David
Finegold and David Soskice examined the institutional bases of Germany’s
“high skill” and the United Kingdom’s “low skill” equilibria (Finegold and
Soskice 1988). In particular, they argued that Britain’s chronic undersupply
of training went back to public good or free rider problems, and the re-
sulting dearth of skills in the economy encouraged firms to pursue product
strategies premised on low skills, which in turn discouraged investment in
skills, and so on. This dynamic provided the backdrop to their analysis of
the inability and/or unwillingness of the British government to take action
to break the cycle (Finegold and Soskice 1988: 25ff).
In the meantime, the literature has begun to paint a somewhat more dif-
ferentiated pattern of strengths and weaknesses (see, for example, Crouch,
Finegold, and Sako 1999; Culpepper 2003; Culpepper and Finegold 1999;
Hall and Soskice 2001; Green and Sakamoto 2001). Thus, for example,
Finegold’s more recent work highlights Germany’s continued high invest-
ment in initial manufacturing skills (apprenticeship) but notes deficits in
the commitment of firms to further training – now arguably more impor-
tant than ever in the context of rapidly changing production technology –
(see Pichler 1993), as well as the overall scarcity of certain high-end
(information technology and engineering) skills (Crouch, Finegold, and
Sako 1999; Atkins 2000). Conversely, the United States, long viewed as a
skills “laggard,” is now getting more credit for producing an abundance
of high-end skills – having become a net exporter of skills in informa-
tion technologies, for example – despite continued worries about the coun-
try’s under-investment in traditional manufacturing skills (Hall and Soskice
2001; Smith 2000). In a way, the emphasis in the political economy litera-
ture has shifted from an effort to identify overall differences in the quantity
10
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Economists on Skills
As a first step in situating this literature and in mapping the empirical cases, it
is useful to summarize briefly the way in which economists have approached
the issue of skill formation. A point of departure for the political economy
literature cited above is training market failures going back to poaching
externalities, a view which for most of the first half of the twentieth cen-
tury was widely accepted among economists (see, for example, Pigou 1912;
Stevens 1996). The crux of the problem was seen to consist of a collective
action dilemma. Specifically, firms that need skills face a choice: whether to
provide their own training (at some cost to themselves), or attempt to secure
skilled labor on the labor market (in effect, to attract workers from other
firms that have invested in training). Since firms are themselves competitors
in labor and product markets, each individual company will be tempted to
poach workers from other firms, thus avoiding the costs associated with skill
formation and in fact making off with the investment of its competitors.
The more firms that choose this strategy, the greater will be the costs to
those firms that do train; they incur both the costs of training itself and the
costs of competing with non-training firms which – free of these costs –
can offer these workers a wage premium. If all firms pursue non-training
strategies, then of course all are worse off since this would diminish the
overall stock of skills on which all rely.
In a widely cited contribution, Gary Becker called into question this pos-
ing of the problem (1964). Becker distinguished between general skills and
specific skills and argued that poaching externalities would not be a prob-
lem in either case. For general skills – defined as those skills that are fully
transportable and hold value to many employers – it is quite true that firms
have no incentive to invest in training. But even if firms do not invest, work-
ers will, or in Becker’s words, “it is the trainees, not the firms who would
bear the cost of general training and profit from the return” (1993: 34).8
7 The available, mostly OECD, data are anyway notorious for their lack of comparability (for
example, OECD 1998: 10–11). For a discussion see also Lynch (1994).
8 Note that this formulation does not address the question of the supply of training, however.
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Beyond Becker
In the meantime a number of studies have emerged which take us “be-
yond Becker” (Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a) but also, paradoxically, back
to some of the training–market problems identified by the earlier literature.
This work responds in part to empirical anomalies that point to sources
of under investment in skills that appear not to be captured by the logic
of Becker’s model (Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a; Finegold and Soskice
1988). Most of this more recent scholarship does not take issue directly
with Becker’s analysis of the two ideal-typical models of training markets
characterized by perfect competition (general skills) and non-competitive
labor markets (specific skills), but research has focused on the provision of
training in the intermediate case of imperfectly competitive labor markets
for certain kinds of skills. Specifically, analysts have reacted to two aspects
of Becker’s argument: (1) the sharp distinction he draws between general
and specific skills (Estevez-Abe, Iversen, and Soskice 2001; Stevens 1996;
Stevens 1999),9 and (2) his implicit assumption that the market for general
skills will always be perfectly competitive (Acemoglu and Pischke 1998;
Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a; Acemoglu and Pischke 1999b).
First, Margaret Stevens attacks the problem by questioning Becker’s stark
categorization of skills as either general or specific. She focuses on an inter-
mediate category of skills, what she calls transferable skills.10 Such skills “are
of value to more than one firm, and there is competition between firms to
employ the worker, but competition is not sufficiently fierce that the wage
is driven up to the marginal product” (Stevens 1999: 19). Stevens and others
imply that very many skills fall into some kind of intermediate category.
In a similar vein, Finegold and Soskice note that a given firm may need
a particular mix of skills, and that while each one may be general the mix
9 Although Becker does recognize that most training is neither purely general nor purely
specific (Becker 1993: 40).
10 This seems similar to the category “industry skills” identified by Estevez-Abe, Iversen, and
Soskice (2001).
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itself is specific (Finegold and Soskice 1988; Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a:
F124). Moreover, Franz and Soskice (1995) argue that the acquisition of
general and specific skills is complementary, that is, teaching firm-specific
skills reduces the costs of teaching general skills and vice versa.
The introduction of this intermediate category of transferable skills
(portable but not really “general” in Becker’s sense) re-introduces the prob-
lem of poaching externalities since in an imperfectly competitive labor mar-
ket the value of the skill (= wage) will not necessarily be driven up fully to
marginal product, and some of the training accrues to the firm that employs
the skilled worker (Stevens 1999: 20). This situation reduces the employee’s
incentive to acquire skills (since he will not be able to capture the full re-
turn on his training investment in the form of wages), but for the very same
reason, it also increases the employer’s incentive to assume a part of the
costs of training. But this, in turn, raises again the possibility that one firm’s
investment in training might accrue to some other firm – that is, a poach-
ing externality – leading to under investment in skills of this type (Stevens
1999: 27).
Acemoglu and Pischke argue similarly for the possibility of imper-
fect labor market competition and associated implications for training
(Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a: F127). Whereas Stevens and others (for
example, Estevez-Abe, Iversen, and Soskice 2001) attack the Becker the-
sis by drawing out more fine-grained distinctions among types of skills,
however, Acemoglu and Pischke focus instead on the structure of the labor
market. Against Becker’s thesis that firms will never pay for general training,
they note empirical examples (German apprenticeship is one) where firms
do bear a significant fraction of the cost of general training (Acemoglu and
Pischke 1999a: F113–4). By way of explanation they cite labor market im-
perfections that prevent skilled workers from claiming wages equal to their
full marginal productivity and that thus allow employers to earn rents on
their training (Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a: F120; Acemoglu and Pischke
1998: 80).
Acemoglu and Pischke consider various sources of labor market imper-
fections. Institutions or situations that result in low labor turnover, for
example, distort the competitiveness of labor markets, making it possible
for employers to retain a worker after training at a wage lower than marginal
product. One source of low labor turnover is monopsony power exercised
by large firms that may dominate a local economy. Firms in such a situation
could pay a wage above the local rate but still below the marginal produc-
tivity of its trained workers (Acemoglu and Pischke 1998: 80–1). Japanese
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Back to Politics
The analytic move made by Acemoglu and Pischke – from the assumption
of perfectly competitive labor markets to the observation that the degree
11 Blinder and Krueger (1996) show that labor turnover in Japan is less than half the U.S.
level. Japanese management policies, including seniority-based wages, company-level so-
cial policy, and reluctance to recruit experienced workers from other firms, contribute to
this outcome.
12 Acemoglu and Pischke also note other sources of labor market imperfections that have
similar effects to low labor turnover and wage compression. These include matching and
search frictions, which make it difficult for workers to quit their jobs and find new ones, and
asymmetric information about how much training workers have (that is, a firm which trains
its workers has an advantage over competitors because it has better information about the
workers’ skill levels) (Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a).
13 Additionally, the typical argument about compression is that this creates incentives for em-
ployers to replace relatively expensive unskilled workers with machines. Together with the
skills argument I am making, this points toward a high-skill, higher technology trajectory
(supporting what Streeck has called “diversified quality production”) (see also Moene and
Wallerstein 1995; Streeck 1991).
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of competitiveness in the labor market can vary (with implications for the
incentives facing both firms and trainees) – is crucial to the present anal-
ysis because, as the case studies elaborated below show, training regimes
developed historically in tandem and in interaction with the development
of other labor-market institutions and organizations. In Britain, as we will
see, union structures and collective bargaining institutions developed in
ways that intensified and in some ways distorted competition among em-
ployers in both skilled labor and product markets. By contrast, in Germany
and Japan, developments with respect to union structures and collective
bargaining introduced labor-market imperfections that provided some in-
centives for firms to train while at the same time (re-)introducing collective
action problems associated with poaching.14
The point is that the structure and operation of skilled labor markets
can be significantly influenced by politics, and historically, the interaction
of the development of training regimes and of labor-market institutions
had a profound effect on what kind of skilled labor market employers (and
trainees) faced, as well as the kinds of solutions available for redressing
the particular (different) market failures that emerged in different contexts.
The problems (and solutions) that emerged historically are what lie behind
some of the striking contemporary national differences in training regimes
(Acemoglu and Pischke 1999a: F132).
In terms of outcomes, Peter Hall and David Soskice note that in lib-
eral market economies, the incentives are for young people to acquire skills
that are generally marketable rather than firm- or even industry-specific.
Companies may upgrade this education with some company training but
typically attempt to add only non-transferable (firm-specific) skills whose
full benefit they and only they can recoup (Hall and Soskice 2001). The
U.S. training regime thus does not favor strong firm-based investment in
private sector vocational training. It appears, however, to support very well
the production of a plentiful supply of “high-end” skills – for example, en-
gineering and programming – that thrive in a context that rewards strong
general (especially university) education and where demand for training on
the part of young people is driven by intense competition among firms.
14 Acemoglu and Pischke do not do the historical analysis, but they do stress the complemen-
tarities between training systems and labor market regulations (1999a: F136) and suggest
that “the more frictional and regulated labor markets [in Europe and Japan] may encourage
more firm-sponsored training” (Acemoglu and Pischke 1999b: 567). See also Peter Hall
and David Soskice who discuss institutional complementarities between training systems
and other political–economic institutions (Hall and Soskice 2001).
16
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15 The present analysis would also stress wage compression, which provides an incentive for
firms to invest in training even as it intensifies the poaching problem, the latter being in
effect “solved” at least in part by some of the same institutional arrangements that gave
rise to it. These institutions are cited by Hall and Soskice, and they include coordinated
bargaining (which compresses wages but also dampens poaching), strong employers as-
sociations (which punishes free riders), and plant level codetermination (which provides
relatively long job tenure).
16 As Christa van Wijnbergen has emphasized to me.
17
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facing trainees (since they “pay” for their training with low wages over a
long period), and (2) at the same time provide incentives for firms to train
by allowing them to share in the returns.
As this formulation already suggests, however, a key problem in insti-
tutionalizing a stable skill formation regime along these lines lies in the
difficulty in establishing a credible commitment between the trainee and
the training firm (see especially Hansen 1997: 280). Apprenticeship involves
an over-time contract between the trainee and the firm: The firm provides
high quality training, but in exchange needs some assurance that the ap-
prentice will in fact stay with the firm through the initial, high-cost period
and into the period in which the trainee’s contribution to production out-
paces the wages he or she is earning. In the absence of such assurances,
firms will be tempted to cut corners on training and exploit apprentices as
a source of cheap labor. For their part, apprentices will be willing to accept
below-market wages so long as they can be guaranteed employment that
allows them to reap the benefits of investment in this high-quality train-
ing (for example, by putting them at some future date in the market for
high-wage skilled labor, or alternatively, by guaranteeing them long-term
employment which protects against the skills thus acquired becoming obso-
lete). However, those apprentices who have reached the final stages of that
training (virtually fully trained but still earning below-market wages) will
be tempted to break off their apprenticeship in order to enter the regular
labor market where the skills they have already acquired can bring much
higher wages (Hansen 1997: 13, 280).
The problem is a classic dilemma that revolves around the difficulty of
securing mutually credible commitments from both parties to a training
contract. Without strong external monitoring and mechanisms for punish-
ing breaches of contract, neither party – neither firms nor trainees – can be
sure that the other party will keep up its end of the bargain. Unless some
mechanism is found to force firms to train well and to prevent them from
exploiting apprentices, at the same time forcing apprentices to stay long
enough for the company to recoup its investment, apprenticeship training
is likely to deteriorate into cheap unskilled labor.
One solution to these problems is a system of skill certification, in which
the state, employers, unions, or some combination of these, can devise
and enforce procedures for evaluating and certifying skills (Hansen 1997:
380–94). Such procedures hinder firms from exploiting apprentices because
firms whose trainees regularly fail standardized certification exams are likely
to lose their license to train (and with it, the contribution of low-wage
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17 There are also reputational effects. The firms whose trainees do especially poorly on cer-
tification exams are unlikely to be able to recruit the best apprentices.
18 These correspond to Gary Herrigel’s distinction between “decentralized” (and collectively
coordinated) and “autarkic” production regimes (Herrigel 1996b), and to Peter Swenson’s
categories of “solidaristic” versus “segmentalist” labor market strategies (Swenson 2002).
19
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19 For a very insightful discussion of Germany with reference to the contrasting British ex-
perience, see Kocka (1984) and Kocka (1986b). For other useful comparisons between
the two, see Mommsen and Husung (1985) and Crossick and Haupt (1984). Colin Crouch
makes a compelling (and much broader) argument about divergent national trajectories that
points specifically to the significance of the survival or destruction of traditional corporatist
institutions (including guilds) in the course of industrialization (Crouch 1993: especially
316–17).
20 The construction industry in many countries is an example. Another example, discussed in
Chapter 4, can be found in the stove industry in the United States at the turn of the last
century. In terms of national patterns, Denmark comes closest to this outcome.
21
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22
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but that has also (on the other hand) clearly undergone a massive if quieter
transformation over the course of the last century. For both these reasons,
an examination of the evolution of the German system can provide impor-
tant insights into the question of how institutions persist and change over
time.
Although these are central issues in comparative politics, questions of
institutional evolution and change have attracted very little systematic at-
tention. As Pierson has pointed out, one result of this has been a tendency
to “fall back” on explanations that attribute the existence and form of in-
stitutions to the functions they perform, either for the “system” (or some
“collective”) or for the (powerful) actors that benefit from the operation
of these institutions (Pierson 2000b: 475). Functionalism has a long pedi-
gree in political science, and in the past came in both right-leaning and
left-leaning variants (for a discussion see Hall 1986: 5–7). In the structural-
functionalism of Easton (Easton 1957) and others, for example, the key
functions performed by “the state” were interest articulation and aggrega-
tion, whereas Marxist scholarship emphasized accumulation and legitima-
tion. In both versions, however, the existence of specific phenomena was
explained with reference to the effects of those phenomena (Hall 1986: 6).
This type of “societal functionalism” has been mostly abandoned, but a
somewhat different, more “actor centered” version of the argument is very
much alive and current (Pierson 2004: Chapter 4).22 One relevant litera-
ture has its roots in “new institutional economics” (NIE), which has been
devoted to explaining how self-interested actors could overcome collective
action problems in the market and realize mutual benefits through coop-
eration, and which in the meantime has been widely applied to politics
as well. In international relations, for example, some scholars see insti-
tutions as mechanisms through which states can reduce transaction costs
and achieve joint gains in an anarchic world (Keohane 1984; Koremenos,
Lipson, and Snidal 2001); in American politics, scholars writing on the U.S.
Congress see institutional rules as important in eliminating “cycling” and
facilitating credible commitments among legislators (Shepsle and Weingast
1981; Weingast and Marshall 1988; Shepsle 1986); in comparative politics,
some analysts see electoral rules and other arrangements as providing a
stable structure of cooperation for rival elites (Przeworski 2001). That this
22 This distinction between societal and actor-centered functionalism comes from Pierson,
who elaborates the different arguments about institutional choice and institutional devel-
opment associated with each of these two lines of argument (Pierson 2004: Chapter 4).
24
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23 Jon Elster (Elster 2003) makes a much more radical critique of the literature on “rational
institutional design,” arguing that for a variety of reasons the actors who design institutions
will not get institutions that match their objective interests, even in the short run.
24 Knight puts it even more pointedly: “one of the most significant mistakes made by pro-
ponents of rational choice explanations of institutional change is the practice of working
back from identifiable institutional effects to determine the initial preferences of the actors
involved in the institutionalization process” (Knight 1999: 33–34).
25
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argument, most scholars embracing this idea seriously entertain the possi-
bility of what Stinchcombe has termed an “historicist explanation” of the
origins of institutions, which is to say that the “processes responsible for
the genesis of an institution are different from the processes responsible
for the reproduction of the institution” (Mahoney 2000: 4; Stinchcombe
1968:101–29). This alternative perspective stands in sharp contrast to the
theories just described, for the answer it offers to the question of “why
institutions take the form they do” is historical not functional. So far this
second perspective has been overall more prominent among scholars asso-
ciated with “historical institutionalism,” who tend to emphasize institutions
as the product of concrete temporal processes and political struggles (for
an extended discussion see Thelen 1999: especially 381–99).
The most influential treatments of path dependence within political sci-
ence draw significant inspiration and insight from the work of economic
historians (especially historians of technology), in particular Paul David
and Brian Arthur (see, especially, Pierson 2000a). The whole point of this
literature in economics was to refute those perspectives that maintain that
“real time and history [can] be safely ignored,” since the market will sort out
inefficient technologies such that a technological system will gravitate to
the same (efficient) equilibrium, no matter where it started (Hodgson 1993:
204). In the alternative historicist versions of technological development, by
contrast, timing and sequencing loom large in determining which of several
possible equilibria is reached – and whether the most efficient solution is
selected. Timing (for example, being “first out of the gate”) matters because
once a technology is chosen, it is subject to significant increasing returns
processes (Pierson 2000c; David 1985; Arthur 1989). Increasing returns
effects can translate an early and perhaps idiosyncratically induced advan-
tage into a stable trajectory of development, as firms adapt to the prevailing
standard, investing in it in ways that reinforce the initial choice (for exam-
ple, people invest in mastering the technology, firms make products that fit
with the industry standard, and so on). Through these developments, the
initial choice can get “locked in,” making it hard to shift the standard even
if a competing technology is revealed to have been the more efficient one
(Arthur 1989; David 1985).25
25 The usual example is the QWERTY keyboard, although I should mention that Liebowitz
and Margolis (Liebowitz and Margolis 1990) strongly contest David’s famous version of the
story. They provide evidence that the QWERTY model is efficient, but they also make some
broader arguments about the role of institutions, some of which are broadly compatible
with what I argue about politics below.
26
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What political scientists have taken from this is the intuitively attrac-
tive idea that politics, like technology, involves some elements of chance
(agency, choice), but once a path is taken, previously viable alternatives
become increasingly remote, as the relevant actors adjust their strategies
to accommodate the prevailing pattern (among others, see North 1990;
Zysman 1994). In political science, the concept of path dependence has thus
become closely linked to the idea that countries undergo “critical junctures”
that set them moving along particular (cross-nationally different) trajecto-
ries that are then difficult if not impossible to reverse (Collier and Collier
1991; North 1990; Mahoney 2002). Two large and fruitful literatures have
emerged from this, one on “crucial junctures” (mostly about the origins
of cross-national variation in important institutional arrangements) and
one on “feedback effects” through which institutions, once selected, repro-
duce themselves and also shape the trajectory of institutional development
by constraining subsequent choices (for a more complete discussion, see
Thelen 1999). Such analyses provide a powerful refutation of functionalist
theories of institutional origins and they do so precisely by showing how
the current shape of institutions is deeply conditioned by the historical
circumstances surrounding their genesis.
Arguments about increasing returns and positive feedback have also pro-
vided powerful alternatives to previous vague formulations that attribute in-
stitutional survival to “stickiness” or “inertia.” In a widely cited (one might
even say path-breaking) contribution, Pierson examined how many of the
mechanisms that generate increasing returns in economic systems may, if
anything, be more prevalent and intense in political institutions (Pierson
2000a). He argues that many formal political institutions are subject to the
same types of large set-up costs, strong learning and coordination effects,
and adaptive expectations that Arthur found to be important in economics.
Mahoney (Mahoney 2000) moves a step beyond the economics literature,
identifying and distinguishing reproduction mechanisms going beyond the
utilitarian to include political and normative processes that also operate in a
self-reinforcing way to entrench existing political arrangements. The point
in this work has been to underscore the role of increasing returns effects
on institutional developments to show why, in North’s words, although
“specific short-run paths are unforeseeable, the overall direction . . . is both
more predictable and more difficult to reverse” (North 1990: 104).
As this characterization suggests, however, increasing returns and pos-
itive feedback arguments of this variety have been more helpful in under-
standing the sources of institutional resiliency than in yielding insights into
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institutional change. When it comes to the latter, the notion of path de-
pendence seems to encourage scholars to think of institutional change in
one of two ways: as either very minor and more or less continuous (most
of the time) or major but then abrupt and discontinuous (rarely) (Streeck
and Thelen, forthcoming). This has yielded a strangely bifurcated litera-
ture that links path dependence as a concept to two completely different (in
some ways diametrically opposed) conceptions of change. Some scholars
invoke the term rather loosely to support the broad assertion that legacies
of the past always weigh on choices and changes in the present (for example,
Sewell 1996). Many studies of transitions to democracy and market econ-
omy in contemporary Eastern Europe, for example, use “path dependence”
in this way, as in: “Path-dependency suggests that the institutional legacies
of the past limit the range of current possibilities and/or options in insti-
tutional innovation” (Nielson, Jessop, and Hausner 1995: 6). In such cases,
the concept of “path dependence” is invoked to emphasize the constraints
institutional innovators face, and often presented as a more realistic alter-
native to accounts that view institution building in a highly voluntaristic
way, a matter of “designing” institutions that embody the right incentive
structures (for example, Stark 1995).
Others, however, and often those who want to insist on a more pre-
cise definition of path dependence, tend toward a very different view of
change, one closer to an especially strong version of a punctuated equi-
librium model (Krasner 1988). Mahoney, for instance, is critical of loose
definitions of path dependence and argues that “path dependence charac-
terizes specifically those historical sequences in which contingent events
set in motion institutional patterns or event chains that have deterministic
properties” (Mahoney 2000: 1). By emphasizing the very different logic
of institutional choice (as contingent) and of institutional reproduction (as
deterministic) this definition implies and encourages the analyst to draw a
sharp line between the “critical juncture” moments in which institutions are
originally formed (or perhaps re-founded) and long periods of stasis charac-
terized by institutional continuity. Any number of examples could be given
here but the idea is generally captured in what T. J. Pempel calls “long con-
tinuities” periodically interrupted by “radical shifts” (Pempel 1998: 1). In
his words: “Path-dependent equilibrium is periodically ruptured by radical
change, making for sudden bends in the path of history” (Pempel 1998: 3).
Claims about relative contingency at historic choice points and relative
determinism in trajectories once “chosen” are pervasive in the social sci-
ence literature (also beyond political science) and they are by no means
28
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26 Nor, conversely, do all path dependence theorists subscribe to a strong punctuated equi-
librium model of change, as indicated above.
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things, state policy in Germany and Japan directly inhibited the formation
of craft-based unions, whereas state policy in Britain and the United States
in various ways promoted the emergence of unions organized along skill
lines. State policy entrenched and stabilized the artisanate as a corporate
actor in Germany, while it actively disorganized traditional craftsmen in
Britain, Japan, and the United States. In all cases, the state established broad
“regulatory regimes” (liberal in the United States and United Kingdom,
state-centered in Japan, corporate-centered in Germany) that became focal
points and that influenced how interests were articulated and how debates
were framed (Crouch 1993).
When institutions are founded they are not universally embraced or
straightforwardly “adapted to,” but rather continue to be the object of on-
going conflict, as actors struggle over the form that these institutions should
take and the functions they should perform. Rationalist (including function-
alist) accounts are quite right to draw attention to what institutions do, be-
cause the effects of institutional arrangements is precisely why actors fight
about them. My analysis thus shares with Knight the idea that institutional
development is “a contest among actors to establish rules which structure
outcomes to those equilibria most favorable for them” (Knight 1999: 20).
As such it argues against the kind of unspoken consensus that some sociol-
ogists associate with institutions (for example, Meyer and Rowan 1991),27
but it also shares with Knight and Moe a somewhat dim view of the more
voluntarist perspective that informs some work in the NIE vein. As Moe has
pointed out, the cooperative aspects of institutions need not be neglected,
but they must be explicitly linked to the power–political dimension, “for it
is cooperation that makes the exercise of power possible, and the prospect
of exercising power that motivates cooperation” (Moe 2003: 12).
My characterization of institutional genesis thus emphasizes a strong
power-distributional component. It focuses heavily on political coalitions
and political conflicts – some fought directly over issues relating to skill
formation, others related only obliquely to skills but with implications
nonetheless for outcomes in that realm. This analysis differs from some
other power-based perspectives in two respects, however. First, and most
important, I largely eschew presenting the argument in the language of
“power” in favor of identifying the interests and coalitions on which in-
stitutions are founded. My reasons are in part purely pragmatic; unlike
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“power,” actors and their interests are more tractable empirically. Beyond
this, however, an examination of the shifting coalitional basis on which in-
stitutions rest is critical to understanding how institutions both survive and
change through time. Institutions frequently outlive their founding coali-
tions, and their endurance and robustness often involves a reconfiguration
of their coalitional base in light of shifting social, political, and market con-
ditions. There is nothing automatic or self-enforcing about this, and indeed
the political renegotiations that accompany such realignments are crucial
to understanding changes over time in how institutions are configured and
in what they do.
Second, and related to this, emphasizing interests and alliances allows
us to examine intriguing power reversals that sometimes flow from changes
in the coalitional foundations on which institutions rest. Against power-
distributional perspectives that view institutions as straightforward reflec-
tions of the interests of the powerful – and thus responding automatically
to changes in the balance of power or in the preferences of the powerful –
this study suggests a more historicist view of institutional evolution and
change. As the cases below demonstrate, institutions are created in a con-
text marked by multiple and simultaneous functional and political demands.
As a consequence, institutions designed to serve one set of interests often
become “carriers” of others as well. As Schickler (Schickler 2001) notes, the
diverse coalitions who can cobble together political support for some in-
stitutional innovation are often motivated by disparate, even contradictory,
concerns (see also Palier forthcoming; Pierson 2004: Chapter 5). An ex-
ample from the present analysis is the 1897 legislation that became the
cornerstone of Germany’s apprenticeship training system, which reflected
a remarkable combination of economically progressive and politically re-
actionary interests and motives.
This and the related fact that institution builders can “never do just one
thing” in the sense of creating institutions that have the intended effects
and only the intended effects (Pierson 2004: 115) helps explain some of
the striking reversals in the power-distributional origins and development
of institutions in the country cases examined in this book. The power of
German unions, for example, has been very much shored up by a strong
system for plant-based training, but the original framing legislation was
mostly aimed at weakening unions. Conversely, skilled unions in Britain
had a strong interest in a viable apprenticeship system; they were the
actors most interested (and most involved) in regulating apprenticeship
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at the turn of the century. As we will see, however, their strategies in this
area inadvertently hastened the demise of firm-sponsored training, which
in turn undermined the skill base on which labor power had originally been
constructed.
These observations have important implications for how we understand
institutional origins and institutional evolution over time. In the cases laid
out below, the mechanisms behind path dependence arguments – increasing
returns and feedback effects – are certainly part of the story. In Germany,
the existence of a system for skill formation dominated by organizations of
master artisans in the early industrial period shaped the kind of labor move-
ment that would emerge, among other things by hastening the demise of
skill-based unions by denying them any hope of controlling the market in
skills. But the operation of the handicraft system generated further feed-
back effects among industrial workers themselves (many of whom had ac-
quired their own credentials within that system). As a consequence of such
connections, Germany’s industrial unions developed a strong interest in
democratizing and co-managing the system of in-plant training rather than
dismantling it, though this goal would elude them until after World War II.
Positive feedback, therefore, can tell us a great deal about how key actors
got constituted in the first place and also about the strategies they would
develop in this area.
If one told this purely as a tale of critical juncture and positive feedback,
however, one would miss much of what is in fact interesting and important
about the way in which these institutions were transformed through po-
litical re-alignments and specifically through the incorporation of groups
whose role in the system was unanticipated at the time of their creation.
As indicated above, institutional reproduction is far from automatic and in
some cases “adaptation” on the part of social actors to preceding waves of
institutional innovation is as likely to inspire further revision as to entrench
existing arrangements. In the case of vocational training, the political in-
corporation of workers in the early years of the Weimar Republic, and,
more directly, the later incorporation of unions into a variety of parapub-
lic “corporatist” institutions after World War II, recast the functions these
institutions served in important ways – even as they contributed to institu-
tional reproduction by bringing the system in line with new economic and
political conditions. In other words, at critical junctures, old institutions
are not necessarily dismantled and replaced, but often either recalibrated
or “functionally reconverted” in part or in whole. In the German case, as we
will see, institutional survival depended not just on positive feedback, but on
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28 In a way, the view of institutional evolution elaborated here may provide a more tractable al-
ternative to the highly suggestive but somewhat abstract argument of Orren and Skowronek
concerning the way in which “change along one time line affects order along the other”
(Orren and Skowronek 1994: 321).
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The German case provides a good point of departure for a study of the
politics of skill formation. Germany has long been considered exemplary for
its vocational training system, which even despite current strains (discussed
in Chapter 5) continues to attract large numbers of German youth and
to produce an abundance of high-quality skills (Streeck 1992b; Culpepper
and Finegold 1999; Green and Sakamoto 2001: 73). Since the turn of the
century, observers from abroad have looked to the German training model
as a source of ideas and inspiration (see, for example, Cooley 1912; and, more
recently, Reich 1991). This chapter examines the genesis and early evolution
of the German system. As we will see, this system was not created “of a piece”
but rather, evolved as successive layers were patched on to a rudimentary
framework developed at the end of the nineteenth century. The critical
legislative innovation around which the whole system was constructed was
passed by an authoritarian government, initiated and originally conceived
as part of a deeply conservative political strategy aimed mostly against the
country’s nascent organized labor movement. This chapter begins to track
the processes through which this system evolved subsequently into what is
now considered a pillar of social partnership between labor and capital in
Germany today.
To preview the argument: The crucial starting point in Germany was
the survival of an independent artisanal sector, formally (and legally) en-
dowed with rights to regulate training and to certify skills. This outcome
was actively promoted by the state, with motives that were as much politi-
cal as economic. Facing a strong and radical labor movement, conservative
political forces in Imperial Germany sought to shore up a viable artisanal
sector as a political counterweight to the social democrats. Crucial legisla-
tion in 1897 created a framework for apprentice training under the control
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1 As Kocka notes (Kocka 1984: 96–7), the definition of Handwerk and of Handwerker
(craftsman/artisan) has always been somewhat slippery and has shifted over time. The im-
portant distinctions are, on the one hand, between “industry” and “Handwerk,” and between
“Handwerker” and “Arbeiter” (worker) on the other. The difference between the Handwerk
(handicraft) sector and industry was traditionally partly a matter of size (handicraft firms typ-
ically being smaller) but was linked also to the nature of production, which in the Handwerk
sector historically involved “skilled manual work [also by the master-employer himself ]
without much mechanization” (Kocka 1984: 96). Regarding the line between Handwerker
and Arbeiter, Kocka notes that “since the second third of the nineteenth century at least,
there has been a tendency towards equating Handwerker with Handwerksmeister (master
artisan)” as the term came to be “increasingly reserved for self-employed craftsmen” whereas
“Arbeiter” was “increasingly reserved for those who worked with their hands for wages”
(Kocka 1984: 96–7). See also Streeck (1992a) for a characterization of Handwerk as a
social institution and above all, as a legal concept. As he points out, much – though not
all – of what in other countries is coded as small business is organized legally in Germany
under the category of Handwerk (Streeck 1992a: 108). Rooted in the history I am about to
tell, the German artisanal sector has survived and thrived partly through state regulation
but regulation encouraging ongoing adaptation to changes in the technological and market
environment.
2 See, for example, Gillingham (1985: 424) who asserts that historically, “the demand for
increased vocational training originated on the political left.” Other characterizations of the
contemporary system also often seem to imply that organized labor had something to do
with the development of various features of the system, for example, skill standardization
(Culpepper 1999b: 4, 30) when, in fact, these features had already been well established long
before labor’s role within the system was institutionalized (1969).
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it played a hugely important role in shaping the way that organized labor
defined its interests and strategies with respect to skills. Most directly, the
existence of this system foreclosed the option of unions organizing around
the control of skilled labor markets. Even more important, as the ranks of
Germany’s social democratic unions filled up with skilled workers who had
received their credentials under the system, the unions developed a strong
interest not in dismantling, but rather in controlling or co-managing, the
system of firm-based training that it represented. Thus, in the Weimar pe-
riod German unions were already emerging as advocates of in-plant train-
ing, and ready allies of those segments of capital that had their own reasons
for wanting to break into the system of skill formation that had been created
for and was being monopolized by small employer master craftsmen.
The machine industry was the other key player in the early industrial
period. This sector was heavily dependent on skills, and therefore was
also a major consumer of the skills produced by these small handicraft
firms. Around the turn of the century, Germany’s premier machine firms
sought and tried to pursue an alternative, segmentalist model of skill forma-
tion based on training for internal labor markets and relying more heavily
on plant-based schools – very similar (as later chapters show) to practices
emerging in the United States and Japan around this time. However, for
a variety of reasons elaborated below, in Germany these firms could not
escape the logic of the pre-existing handicraft system, and the training
strategies they developed instead had to accommodate and in a sense work
around that system. The result was that industries such as these that re-
lied heavily on skills were pushed toward a more coordinated approach to
skill formation through their competition with the artisanal sector whose
power to certify skills they coveted. In a case of what Eric Schickler has
called institutional layering, the Weimar years therefore saw the creation
of a system for industrial training that ran parallel to and alongside the
previous Handwerk system. The coexistence of the two created interaction
effects that altered the overall trajectory of skill formation in Germany,
pulling it in the Weimar years away from the very decentralized, and often
unsystematic, training characteristic of the older handicraft model toward
a much higher degree of standardization and uniformity – both of which
are now considered hallmarks and defining features of the German system
as a whole.
In both cases (that is, for labor and for the machine industry), the point
is that the handicraft system produced feedback effects that had an impor-
tant formative impact on the strategies, interests, and identities developed
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by these other actors. Although neither was part of the original coalition
behind the 1897 legislation, both of these actors became invested in the
system in important ways, and became crucial “carriers” of the system as it
continued to evolve. The fact that these actors defined their interests and
strategies within the logic of the existing system stabilized that system in im-
portant ways (as debates in the Weimar years revolved entirely around the
reform of the system, not its elimination). At the same time, however, these
developments set in motion new tensions and political contests, especially
over the governance of the system and the content of in-plant training, the
results of which also altered the trajectory of training. These conflicts were
not resolved in the Weimar years, but the pulling and hauling that occurred
in the 1920s established the framework for collective governance into which
industry and (later) labor both would ultimately also be incorporated.
3 Blackbourn (Blackbourn 1977) describes the way in which policies toward the artisanate
in the pre-World War I period fit into a broader conservative Mittelstandspolitik (policies
directed at the “lower middle classes” generally). He notes, however, that those who looked
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to the Mittelstand as a bulwark against social disintegration by and large ignored the diversity
of interests of the groups that fell under this label. Lenger (Lenger 1988: 154–7) similarly
stresses the diversity of interests, not just within the Mittelstand but more specifically, among
Handwerker.
4 As discussed below, the handicrafts were organized somewhat differently in different regions,
with implications for both their orientation to the market and their political tendencies.
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5 The law also included provisions for the establishment of journeymen’s committees, en-
dowed with rights to participate in the regulation of apprenticeship through the HWK, and
to be represented on apprentice exam committees (Stratmann 1990: 40–1; Hansen 1997:
358, 378–9).
6 On the politics that shaped the actual content of this legislation in important ways, see
Hansen’s excellent analysis (Hansen 1997: Chapter 5), on which I draw here.
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7 Gary Herrigel (1996b: Chapter 2) provides a comprehensive analysis of the role played by
these associations in presiding over a very different type of industrialization in Germany’s
southwestern states. In the pre- and early industrial period, this took the form of an elaborate
putting-out system, which evolved into networks of small independent producers linked
to one another through a variety of regional institutions (financial institutions, training
institutions) that served to manage the high degree of mutual dependence among these
producers.
8 Master craftsmen in these areas founded so-called continuation schools “which required
journeymen apprentices to attend school after hours or on the weekend to receive addi-
tional technical training” (Herrigel 1996: 52). In some cases (for example, Württemberg
and Bavaria) these schools developed out of compulsory religious Sunday schools (Sadler
1908b: 520). In other cases (for example, Baden) the motives appear to have been purely eco-
nomic (Hansen 1997: 292). Either way, Germany’s southwestern states were at the forefront
of moves to make attendance at such schools mandatory for youths after elementary school,
beginning as early as 1835 when local authorities in Saxony were granted the statutory power
to enforce attendance (Sadler 1908b: 521).
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9 The Prussian state dominated the Federal Council of Imperial Germany, commanding 17
out of a total of 58 votes (Herrigel 1996b: 116–17). But while Prussia could veto legislation
that it opposed, it did not have the clout to pass new legislation that infringed on the rights
of other states, as in this case.
10 See especially Hansen (1997: 380–5), who provides a very elegant and compelling argu-
ment about how certification transformed apprenticeship into a modern training institution
(which it had not been, traditionally).
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of the 1880s had little effect, as regulation through the voluntary guilds
proved weak and ineffectual. However, the Handwerkergesetz of 1897 (and
subsequent revisions in 1908), which institutionalized certification and
monitoring as described above, brought “real progress” (Tollkühn 1926: 13;
see also Adelmann 1979: 12–13; Hansen 1997: 310; Kopsch 1928: 18–19).
Skill certification and monitoring, backed up by compulsory organiza-
tions endowed with parapublic rights to ensure compliance, provided a
powerful mechanism for underwriting credible commitments between
trainees and master artisans. The former had strong incentives to accept low
wages (in fact, apprentices often still paid a fee to the employer) and rela-
tively long contractual obligations (but a maximum of four years, according
to the new Industrial Code) to earn their certification. At the same time,
oversight by the artisanal chambers provided a way of evaluating the qual-
ity of training and thus acted as a check on blatant abuse and exploitation.
Handicraft firms benefited from the apprentices’ contributions to produc-
tion, but in order to avoid losing their training privileges they also had to
train their apprentices relatively well. If their trainees consistently failed
their exams, the firm’s license to train could be revoked (Hansen 1997:
especially 382–3).
As Hansen has emphasized, this legislation represents a fascinating amal-
gam of traditional and progressive elements, as the decentralized industrial
regions were able to assert their interests and turn a fundamentally conser-
vative initiative to market-conforming ends. Very similar to developments
in social policy around this same time (see especially Manow 2001), deeply
illiberal policies were organized not so much around an attempt to preserve
the status quo as to modernize and “rationalize the societal order” (Manow
1999: 5). In vocational training as in social policy the results “established
an especially modern form of interest intermediation, ‘sharing public
space’ . . . with organized societal interests and willing to use ‘functional
organizations as co-opted agents of order’” (Manow 1999: 5). In sum, the
1897 law was absolutely key to the future trajectory of German vocational
training, and it fits very neatly into a broader class of legislation in this
period which was, as Manow puts it, “modern, but certainly not liberal”
(Manow 1999: 5).
implications for both organized labor and industry. For labor, the most
important consequences were (1) effectively to rule out organizational
strategies premised on attempts to control the supply of skills in the econ-
omy, at the same time (2) setting in motion feedback effects through which
Germany’s social democratic unions would themselves become invested
in strategies premised on maintaining and expanding (but also democra-
tizing) the inherited system of plant-based training.11 I deal with each of
these, briefly, in turn.
First, and especially in the context of the comparison to Britain (Chap-
ter 3), the triumph of industrial unionism in Germany is of crucial im-
portance. German unions were clearly not “born” centralized and there
is a longstanding debate on the connections between older handicraft
( journeymen’s) associations and the unions that ultimately emerged in
Germany (see, for example, Engelhardt 1977; Kocka 1986b). In the past,
some authors attributed the triumph of industrial organization to the logic
of late industrialization (industrial concentration being seen as driving
union centralization) or to the influence of working class parties champi-
oning socialist ideologies (associated therefore with a critique of traditional
“corporate” organizational forms and “narrow” craft identities). However,
the late industrialization thesis entirely misses important aspects of German
industrial structure, and the arguments about socialist ideology gloss over
key features of early working class formation and union organization.
Jürgen Kocka’s writings, in particular, have been important in clarifying
the way in which early unions in Germany in some ways built on traditional
organizational forms (for example, journeymen’s brotherhoods) while de-
veloping identities and strategies that were simultaneously strongly anticap-
italist and anticorporate (see especially Kocka 1984; Kocka 1986a; Kocka
1986b; also Welskopp 2000).12 Craft-based journeymen’s associations were
11 This topic merits a more extended treatment than is possible here. It is surprising how
most histories of the German union movement have been told separately from (and with
little reference to) the history of vocational education and training. As Streeck and col-
leagues have pointed out, although much has been written about how industrial relations
institutions affect training (for example, the way that craft unions have tried to regulate
the content and amount of training as part of their strategies) “less is known . . . about the
inverse effect of training on industrial relations” (Streeck et al. 1987: 1).
12 Welskopp’s monumental study of the German social democratic labor movement in the
late nineteenth century shows (among other things) how German unions were pushed into
a different relationship to politics and to the social democratic party by the fact that the
regulation of training through the handicraft chambers precluded a stronger emphasis on
labor market control (as developed in Britain, for example) (Welskopp 2000).
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clearly important in the early German labor movement from the 1840s
to the 1860s. By the 1870s class awareness was on the rise, but even then
unions were still dominated by skilled workers and fragmented along craft
lines (Kocka 1986a: 339–42).13 As Kocka notes, “most unionized workers
belonged to craft- or trade-specific organizations” until the 1890s, though
unions like the metalworkers were from quite early on composed of amal-
gamations of craft organizations (Kocka 1984: 99–100).
In addition, and as Herrigel shows (1993), the organizational landscape
in Germany throughout the last decades of the nineteenth century was
considerably more differentiated than many accounts of late industrializa-
tion premised on the idea of a growing polarization of big industry and
proletariat suggest. In Germany in the late nineteenth century a number
of “different kinds of organizations – industry associations, trade unions,
craft chambers (Innungen) – [all] competed for craftsmen’s allegiance and
membership” (Herrigel 1993: 385). Herrigel puts special emphasis on the
Fachvereine (associations of skilled outworkers) with strong craft identities
as the main competitors for the allegiance of skilled workers in this period.
He argues that this organizational competition is what drove the emergence
of encompassing industry-based unions, for it forced social democrats to
articulate a coherent social ideology that distinguished them from these
other organizations. He maintains that the social democratic unions de-
veloped by filling “the negative space” that was left by the other groups,
which meant embracing an organizational form that appealed to workers
on grounds other than their craft identities (Herrigel 1993: 388).
Herrigel is right to note the continuing importance of occupational
identities within the German labor movement. But a closer look at the
most important industrial union of the time, the Metalworkers (Deutscher
Metallarbeiterverband, or DMV),14 reveals that the union sometimes or-
ganized around the Fachvereine, but in the early years especially grew
mostly by absorbing many of them. At the crucial 1891 congress (at which
13 Comparing data from strikes in the period 1780–1805 against those between 1871–1878,
Kocka shows that craft distinctions had waned over the nineteenth century. Strikes in the
earlier period almost never involved cross-craft cooperation, but by the 1870s, about 10%
of strikes (20% of factory worker strikes and 6% of journeymen strikes) were waged jointly
by different crafts, and support from other crafts was up from 13% to almost one in three.
Still, as Kocka also notes, these strike data also show that, although diminishing, there was
still a “high degree of fragmentation” along craft lines in the 1870s (Kocka 1984: 110–11).
14 The DMV was the largest of the social democratic (“free”) unions, organizing almost a
fifth of their total membership in 1913 (Domansky-Davidsohn 1981: 24).
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15 The mergers were sometimes voluntary, but by no means always. Sometimes they were the
result of pressure by the DMV (Domansky-Davidsohn 1981: 28–9).
16 In 1913, only about 20% of DMV members were unskilled or semi-skilled workers
(Domansky-Davidsohn 1981: 32).
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17 Philip Manow’s work has also highlighted the way in which the development of social
insurance in Germany cut off strategies premised on controlling skilled labor markets.
“Craft unions often offered special insurance benefits to their members. The new social
insurance [of the Bismarckian period] increasingly prohibited using these union insurance
schemes as ‘selective incentives’. Hence, craft unions lost an instrument that was critical for
attracting and keeping members, while industrial unions were gaining a new set of selective
incentives, including power to allocate numerous jobs in the insurance administration to
loyal followers and to have a say over impressive welfare budgets” (Manow 2001b: 117).
In addition, though Manow does not stress it, these developments meant that craft unions
could not use their friendly benefits in support of trade union goals, as was the case in
Britain.
18 See especially Boch (1985). In the case of the Solingen cutlery workers, the Fachverein
was itself the direct descendent of the masters guild. The merchants who organized the
decentralized production of specialty cutlery actively supported the power of the Fachverein
to co-manage the market in skilled labor on which production entirely depended.
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19 See also Domansky-Davidsohn, who notes that despite an increase in membership among
unskilled and semi-skilled workers around 1905, “skilled workers steeped in the handicraft
tradition and those trained in industrial trades still set the tone” (Domansky-Davidsohn
1981: 32).
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(Muth 1985: 36).20 As late as 1925 training was still concentrated in the
small firm sector. A national business census in that year showed that 55%
of all apprentices were being trained in Handwerk firms, as against 45% in
industry (Schütte 1992: 65).21 In short, many industrial firms in the early
industrial period in Germany were able to draw substantially on workers
trained in the artisanal sector to cover their skill needs.
Handwerk firms provided a crucial collective good but they too benefited
since many of them depended on apprentices as a source of cheap productive
labor.22 Traditionally, firms received a fee from the apprentice, and the
handicraft sector lagged behind industry by decades in moving to offer
apprentices any stipend at all (Schütte 1992: 137). In small artisanal firms,
an extra pair of hands that could be flexibly deployed as needed could make a
big difference in terms of overall output, and the training itself could be
accomplished mostly during lulls in production (Hansen 1997).23 Once the
apprenticeship was complete, master artisans may well have been perfectly
happy to see their freshly trained apprentices disappear (as journeymen) into
20 Dehen (1928: 25) provides different figures but the message is the same. He notes that in
Prussia (excluding the areas of decentralized specialty production described above), in the
years before 1871, only 375 apprentices received their training in factories. In 1881, out
of 14,616 skilled industrial workers, over eight thousand had received their training in the
handicraft sector. In 1891, out of about twenty-seven thousand skilled industrial workers,
about one-half had been trained in the handicraft sector. In 1901, it was still well over
one-third (approximately fifteen thousand out of a total of about thirty-five thousand).
21 It must be borne in mind, however, that the line between industrial firms and Handwerk
firms is and especially was somewhat fluid. Many industrial firms “grew out” of handicraft
firms. To this day, however, Handwerk is still a major training sector (see Wagner 1997:
23; also Streeck 1992b).
22 The self-interested motives of the Handwerker in apprentices-as-employees is evidenced
in the widespread exploitation of apprentices during the Great Depression mentioned
above (Muth 1985: 18; Tollkühn 1926: 9–12; Volkov 1978: 73). For this reason, too, some
segments of the artisanate resisted the expansion of compulsory continuation schools that
required them to release apprentices during working hours for supplementary classroom-
based training (Linton 1991: 90–3).
23 Figures on the net costs of training for the period under analysis here are not available. A
recent study shows, however, that even today (when apprentice wages are negotiated by
unions as a percent of skilled workers’ wages) the net costs of taking apprentices (gross cost
of training minus productive output of the trainee) is much smaller for Handwerk firms,
where training takes place in the context of production, than for industrial firms (where
training is more likely to take place in workshops). Moreover (again, for the 1990s), the
variable net cost (variable cost minus fixed costs) was in fact negative for 20% of trainees
in industry and for 30% of trainees in the craft sector, which is to say that the contribu-
tion of apprentices to production outweighed entirely the cost of training them (Wagner
1999: 44).
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large industrial firms; better this than that they set up shop independently
and in more direct competition with their erstwhile masters.
Virtually the only complaints against this system before the turn of the
century came from Germany’s large machine firms – companies such as
Maschinenfabrik Augsburg Nürnberg (M.A.N.), Ludwig Loewe and Com-
pany, Borsig, and Koenig & Bauer. Like everyone else, these firms benefited
from the skills generated by the artisanal sector and they continued to draw
on this source to address their skill needs well into the twentieth century.
Beginning in the 1890s, however, these large firms had begun to complain
that they were pushing up against the limits of the skills provided by the
Handwerk sector. First, Handwerk could not produce skilled workers fast
enough to keep pace with the needs of this industry, which was expanding
exponentially at the turn of the century, and around 1900 overtook all other
sectors to become the single biggest employer of post-school-age males.24
Second, these large firms complained that workers trained in the artisanal
sector did not arrive in the factory fully competent in the new technologies
being introduced at an accelerated pace in this period (Dehen 1928: 27–8;
Tollkühn 1926: 14–16; von Behr 1981: 60–1).
24 Together with metal processing, the machine industry accounted for nearly 40% of em-
ployment of 14- to 16-year-old (male) factory workers by 1912 (Linton 1991: 28).
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25 Of the 145 factory schools founded by the time of Dehen’s (1928) study, almost a third
(47) were in the machine, tool, and auto industries (Dehen 1928: 7). Writing two years
later, the director of the State Technical College for the Iron and Steel Goods Industry in
Schmalkalden, Hans Kellner, noted that among the members of the Berlin Association of
Metal Employers (Verband Berliner Metallindustrieller), ten companies had Werkschulen
that trained large numbers of apprentices. These included AEG, Bergmann, Borsig, L.
Loewe, Mix + Genest, Siemens-Schuckert, Siemens-Halske, Knorrbremse, Stock + Co.,
and Fritz Werner AG (Kellner 1930: 14).
26 See also the discussion of company welfare schemes of Krupp, Zeiss, and other companies
in Lee (1978: 462–3).
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These firms were annoyed, however, by their inability to certify the skills
their training conferred. After 1897 the only way to become certified as
a “skilled worker” in Germany was through the Handwerk chambers (see
especially Hansen 1997: 380–91 on the importance of certification). There
existed no similar authority or officially recognized framework to certify
industrial training, which became a source of irritation for those firms en-
gaged in such training. Already in 1902, the association of Berlin Metal
Industrialists had sought (unsuccessfully) official recognition and certifica-
tion for industrial apprenticeship in Berlin, and accreditation for the train-
ing workshops of that city’s premier industrial training firms – AEG, Borsig,
Loewe, and others (Hansen 1997: 510–11).
In the ensuing years the issue of certification and skill testing became an
issue of some contention between industry and Handwerk (Schütte 1992:
17–19). In 1907 Handwerk conducted a survey to document industry’s heavy
reliance on handicraft training as a source of skills, and used this to support
a demand that all firms that used artisan-trained apprentices be required to
contribute to the costs of such training and to maintaining the handicraft
chambers (Schütte 1992: 18; Muth 1985: 35–6). In this period as well, arti-
sans were (still) seeking legislation that would further upgrade and protect
the standing of those who had earned “master” status within the handicraft
system (Volkov 1978: 143).27
Firms like M.A.N. found it preposterous that their own training – more
systematic by far than that of the traditional artisanal sector – was not
recognized and that they were being asked to contribute to the Handwerk-
based system to boot. As they saw it, the existing system of Handwerk-based
certification privileged and acknowledged inferior training and perversely
supported a system of skill formation they considered outdated. Managers
of these firms pointed to the inadequacy of Handwerk training to meet their
skill needs and thus the need for a separate system of testing and certification
for industry (von Rieppel 1912: 9). They denounced Handwerk’s demands
for industry to contribute more to its (Handwerk’s) system, pointing out
that Handwerk training was in fact inadequate to the needs of industry.
They went to some lengths to refute the claims of the handicraft sector by
27 In 1908 artisans got a reduced version of their demands when the government instituted
the so-called kleiner Befähigungsnachweis which stipulated that only certified master crafts-
men (that is, with master certification through the handicraft chambers) could train ap-
prentices (Hansen 1997: 506; Kaiser and Loddenkemper 1980: 12; see also Schütte 1992:
19–20).
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28 These firms, as we have seen, were often in a position to offer prospective apprentices
other kinds of incentives, including longer term employment prospects – since (in sharp
contrast to these companies) Handwerk firms typically did not intend to keep trainees
once they had completed their apprenticeships. Hansen has argued that the main value of
certification was to underwrite the mutual commitment between apprentices and training
firms for the duration of the training contract, to make sure the firm could recoup its
training costs through the apprentices’ contribution to production. This was certainly
one of the main functions performed by certification in the handicraft sector. Unlike in
the handicraft sector, however, training in the machine companies was accomplished in
workshops where apprentices were not contributing to production, so the “payback” issue
was not so salient as the issue of nurturing internal labor markets. I thank an anonymous
reviewer for emphasizing the different rationale for larger firms in pursuing certification
and testing rights.
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skilled workers and in gaining control over the content and definition of
skills. As pointed out above, these firms found Handwerk training utterly
insufficient. When they recruited from this sector they found they had to
invest considerable resources in retraining these workers in the specific
skills they needed. Thus, when firms like M.A.N. and Siemens made ar-
rangements with their local craft chambers to examine and certify their
apprentices (Hansen 1997: 273–4), these ad hoc arrangements proved un-
stable, often leading to conflicts over the composition of the examination
boards and the types of skills to be tested (Fürer 1927: 32–3; Botsch 1933:
7–8; Mack 1927: 105–7; Kopsch 1928: 14; Frölich 1919: 109–10). M.A.N.,
for example, had a deal with the local handicraft chamber, but continued to
complain that this arrangement was inadequate (Lippart 1919: 7).29
Despite the somewhat different motives, contemporary accounts make
it very clear that Germany’s large machine firms understood the advan-
tages of testing and certification, and perceived their inability to pre-
side over these services as a disadvantage (Frölich 1919; DATSCH 1912:
99, 303; von Rieppel 1912: 9; Lippart 1919: 5–7; Wilden 1926: 1–2;
Gesamtverband Deutscher Metallindustrieller 1934: 18–19). As a conse-
quence, large industrial firms that depended heavily on skills organized
among themselves to demand the creation of a parallel system for pro-
moting and certifying industrial training under the collective control of
the Industry and Trade Chambers (and endowed with powers equal to
those of the Handicraft Chambers). An important early step in the devel-
opment of industrial training was undertaken in 1908, with the founding
of the German Committee for Technical Education (Deutscher Ausschuß
für Technisches Schulwesen, or DATSCH). Jointly sponsored by the As-
sociation of German Engineers (Verein Deutscher Ingenieure, VDI) and
the Association of German Machine-Building Firms (Verband Deutscher
Maschinenbauanstalten, VDMA), the committee demanded from the out-
set separate testing and certification powers (emphasized, for example, as
“urgently desired” in the guidelines the organization set forth for apprentice
training; see DATSCH 1912: 99, 303).
DATSCH’s broader official goal was to “heighten interest in the pro-
motion of a well educated, skilled labor force” (Abel 1963: 41; Tollkühn
29 Although there was a gradual expansion of industry examinations under the auspices of
employer associations and the chambers of industry and commerce (IHK) in the twenties,
these exams were entirely voluntary and had no legal foundation (Kaiser and Loddenkemper
1980: 13).
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30 See also DATSCH Abhandlungen (I 1910: 2–5) on the founding of the organization.
31 One of the first moves (1909) initiated by von Rieppel was a survey of 18 large machine com-
panies regarding their skill needs and their experiences with handicraft-trained apprentices
(Dehen 1928: 27).
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10 to 15% of their total workforce (Dehen 1928: 168), though it is not clear
how successful this initiative was.
Germany’s large machine companies had additional incentives to orga-
nize having to do with the developments in the spread of continuation trade
schooling for youths over the age of 14. As mentioned above, Germany was,
by international standards, a pioneer in developing public trade schools,
which in some states had been made compulsory as early as the 1830s.
Moreover, in 1891, an Imperial Industrial Law (later amended in 1900)
obliged employers to grant their apprentices (and other workers under
18 years of age) time off as necessary to attend continuation schools, in ac-
cordance with regulations set down by local authorities (Sadler 1908a: 517;
Education 1909a: 147, 156).32 Over the 1890s and into the first years of
the twentieth century, the number of states requiring youth to attend such
schools increased so that, by 1908, a large majority of the youth population
was covered.33
At the turn of the century, questions about compulsion, state financing,
and the content of training in continuation schools were subjects of ongo-
ing debate in many regions (notably and perhaps most consequentially, in
Prussia). These were issues in which Germany’s large, skill-intensive firms
had clear and definite interests.34 In Prussia, small scale artisans were very
much opposed to compulsion, and especially compulsory attendance dur-
ing working hours, as this would make training more expensive for them.35
Larger firms benefited much more from compulsory attendance in pub-
lic trade schools, since – especially if they could influence the content – it
amounted to a direct subsidy for efforts already underway. The content of
continuation schooling was contested, notoriously in Prussia between the
Ministry of Education (which sought a more ideological content, that is, as
32 Backed by sanctions and the threat of fines, but also by possible imprisonment if employers
failed to fulfill their obligations (Education 1909a: 147, 156). The Industrial Code of 1869
had given local governments the power to determine local requirements with respect to
continuation schooling.
33 Those states in which attendance at continuation school was still entirely voluntary in
1908 (Hamburg, Lübeck, Reuss, and Schaumburg-Lippe) contained less than 2% of the
population (Sadler 1908b: 513–17). Other states mandated it, and still others allowed local
authorities to mandate it.
34 On these debates see especially Hansen (1997: 514–35), on which I draw here.
35 And if legislation was adopted making attendance compulsory, there was the question of
when such classes should be held – also contentious, as Handwerk preferred solutions
outside regular working hours. In 1904 the Ministry of Industry and Commerce issued a
decree that strongly discouraged holding these classes on Sunday or in the evenings.
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a vehicle for socializing youth against social democracy) and the Ministry of
Trade (which, under the influence of bureaucrats looking at the southwest-
ern model, favored more technical content and explicit links to the firms in
the local economy). The latter prevailed in these conflicts. Although Prussia
continued to lag behind the southwest in terms of the quality and the num-
ber of trade-oriented continuation schools, the period between 1885 and
1904 saw a significant rise in both the number of schools and attendance at
them.36
Thus, Germany’s large machine companies were expanding their own
independent training efforts at exactly the same time that these debates
were unfolding, and DATSCH became a vehicle through which they could
organize their lobbying efforts. Among other things, companies that had
founded factory schools worked with local authorities to get their schools
accredited or to shape the curricula of local continuation schools in ways
that served their purposes.37 Through DATSCH, firms lobbied for in-
creased participation by the state to help bear the costs of training, with
the argument that since youth training was a social good, the costs should
be borne by society as a whole. Premier industrial training firms sought to
influence the curricula of public continuation schools by donating models,
work plans, work pieces, and materials (Dehen 1928: 80–2). Dehen notes a
drop in factory school foundings after 1908 and concludes that this was no
coincidence but rather part of a strategy in which these firms were looking
for ways to offload some of their training costs onto the state.38
We can sum up developments in vocational training to the eve of World
War I. The Handwerk-based system of skill formation that came out of the
Imperial period began to build some of the scaffolding on which Germany’s
system of vocational education and training would ultimately be built. It did
so first by encouraging the development of unions whose strength derived
from organizing skilled workers but which were not wedded to strategies
36 Hansen’s figures indicate that between 1885 and 1904 the number of trade and continuation
schools in Prussia rose from 715 to 2,065, and between 1899 and 1904, attendance grew
from 83,772 to 175,100 (Hansen 1997: 520). State support was explicitly linked to the
adoption of local legislation that made continuation school obligatory for youth up to the
age of 18.
37 Greinert argues generally (also for the Weimar period) that the firms with company schools
were always torn between the desire for control and the desire to off-load some of the costs
of training onto the state (Greinert 1994: 49). Pätzold notes that in the 1920s many of the
large firms with factory schools got their facilities to count as substitutes for the public
trade schools (Pätzold 1989: 279).
38 Between 1910 and 1917 only five such schools were founded (Dehen 1928: 158).
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based on limiting the supply of skills. And second, the existence of such a
system pushed those industries that were heavily dependent on skills toward
strategies based on securing advantage within the logic of the system. The
handicraft system was a crucial focal point for the demands of Germany’s
large machine companies, in two senses. First, it was the foil against which,
through DATSCH, they railed in the prewar period. But second, the hand-
icraft system of coordinated training and self-regulation served as a model
for industry. Industrial firms engaged in training thus spent the prewar
years seeking certification for their trainees through the handicraft cham-
bers, at the same time working collectively to secure separate and parallel
certification powers.
39 And there was a similar agreement in 1920 in the book printing industry (Ebert 1984: 270).
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42 These proposals, though not completely uncontroversial, easily carried the day at the 1919
congress of the central trade union confederation in Nürnberg (Hoffmann 1962: 95–7;
also Schütte 1992: 31–3; Ebert 1984: 262). Ebert notes that already in 1918 the unions
expressed regret for their relative neglect of the training issue in the past.
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43 As put in the resolution adopted at the Nürnberg congress, “Theory without practice offers
only limited training potential” (Hoffmann 1962: 97); for the union demands, see also Ebert
(1984: 269). The unions also favored state support for small- and medium-sized firms to
share training facilities (Schütte 1992: 32; Abel 1963: 48).
44 Kopsch (Kopsch 1928: 75–89) relates the reasons of the free unions for their strongly
supportive position, despite the apparent dangers of promoting trade-based identities that
could clash with overarching union goals. Among the reasons he cites are the positive
effects of training on workers’ wages (noting the possibility that unskilled workers could
exert downward pressure on wages and/or pose problems in the conduct of strikes), and
the positive effect of training on discipline within the union (including as a bulwark against
communist influence which was especially strong among unskilled workers at that time).
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away from the union’s demand for parity representation at the national level
(Ebert 1984: 270).
Nonetheless, union collective bargaining policy and evolving industrial
relations institutions proved crucial to the evolution of skill formation in
industry during the Weimar years. First, sectoral bargaining drove a signif-
icant narrowing of wage differentials between skilled and unskilled workers
in the immediate post-World War I years.45 An initial, particularly sharp
reduction in wage differentials occurred between 1919 and 1921, by which
time unskilled wages in several industries had risen to 85 to 95% of skilled
wages (Mosher 2001: graphs 6–5a, 6–5b, 6–5c, 256–8). The trend toward
wage compression was partially reversed in the currency stabilization (after
1924), but even in this and the subsequent recovery period, skill differentials
remained below their prewar levels. Jim Mosher has traced these effects to
three new features of the political–economic context in the Weimar period.
First and most important, business finally (grudgingly) accepted collec-
tive bargaining with the unions. In the revolutionary situation of the first
postwar years this appeared to them the lesser of two evils. Mosher notes
that whereas in 1913 only 20% of the German workforce was covered by
collective bargaining, by 1924 this figure had increased to 61.2% (Mosher
2001: 280). Second, the Weimar years saw the culmination of the shift from
skill-based unions to industrial unions, a process accelerated and in a way
completed by state policy that recognized the industrial unions as the main
representatives of the working class and shielded them from breakaway
craft unions (Mosher 2001: 304–9). Third, there was a shift in the balance
of power within the unions themselves, as a massive influx of unskilled work-
ers into the unions completely offset the previous predominance of skilled
workers (Mosher 2001: 287).
This last point bears emphasis. As Mosher notes (Mosher 2001: 286–7),
in 1914 the German metalworkers union overwhelmingly organized skilled
workers (only 27% of the members of this industrial union were semi- or
unskilled workers). In addition, the strategies of the union continued to
reflect the dominance of skilled workers in important ways. The Stinnes-
Legien Agreement of 1919 provided a huge boon for union organization –
membership jumped from 1.7 million in 1916 to 10.7 million by 1919, most
of the new recruits coming from the ranks of unskilled workers. The pro-
portion of skilled workers in the key metalworking union (DMV) dropped
from 73% of total membership in 1913 to 59.4% in 1919. Thus, by very
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46 The ultimate settlement in Berlin called for five categories and 76% (Mosher 2001: 292–3).
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47 Mack reports that the “latest” government statistics (presumably from 1926) indicated
that 24% of unemployed were skilled workers or craftsmen, whereas 76% were unskilled
workers (Mack 1927: 2).
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Table 2.1. Weekly wages (in Reichsmark, RM) for youth, by year of apprenticeship
48 According to Molitor, court decisions during the 1920s rather consistently held that the
apprentice relation was a work relationship (Molitor 1960: 13–16). This opened the door for
regulation of apprentice pay and working conditions through collective bargaining in some
sectors. However, in the absence of explicit legislation (the ZAG guidelines for vocational
training discussed above never having been passed into law), the issue remained contested.
49 In 1924, 45 of 62 agreements in metalworking regulated apprenticeship “fully”; 17 did so
“partially” (Schütte 1992: 133).
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in the machine industry had their own reasons for wanting to break the arti-
sanal chambers’ monopoly on skill certification. Already in 1918, DATSCH
(under M.A.N. Director Gottlieb Lippart) set out an eight-point reform
program “to overcome Handwerk’s hegemony” in this area through tar-
geted cooperation with the unions (Schütte 1992: 29). DATSCH wanted
to forestall direct state control of vocational training and preserve a system
of self-administration through economic associations (Pätzold 1989: 273).
However, as we saw above, skill-dependent industries like metalworking
had longstanding troubles arranging for their apprentices to take exams
and have their skills certified (Kopsch 1928: 14; Mack 1927: 105–7; Wilden
1926). “[F]or that reason industry had repeatedly and insistently petitioned
the government to modify the legal guidelines pertaining to the appren-
tice’s final examination in the Industrial Code so that they might apply
not only to Handwerk but to industry as well” (Mack 1927: 105). Although
Handwerk actively opposed the guidelines proposed by the ZAG, and other
segments of industry ranged from indifferent to hostile, some members of
DATSCH endorsed the proposals as a “worthwhile framework” for reform
(Muth 1985: 448; Beil 1921: 8 and passim).
The position of the metalworking industry on the skill issue was rooted
in the economic and political realities of the time. First of all, the war itself
had brought about intense labor shortages, and heightened competition for
skilled workers confounded the strategies of engineering firms attempting
to nurture a stable and loyal core of skilled workers. This problem was most
intense in Berlin where there was a significant concentration of engineering
firms in close proximity to one another. During the war these companies had
managed this competition with the assistance of the 1916 Auxiliary Service
Law (Hilfsdienstgesetz, or HDG), which contained specific restrictions on
the movement of skilled workers. But with the end of the hostilities these
firms sought an alternative and perhaps more enduring solution.50 Machine
firms in more remote areas faced less intense poaching problems and over-
all were less enthusiastic about all forms of collective bargaining. Given the
political climate, however, they too were willing to tolerate and engage in
tactical cooperation with organized labor, not least to keep more radical
50 As an indication of the poaching problems they faced, it is noteworthy that in the first
postwar collective bargaining rounds with unions, in 1919, Berlin metalworking employers
sought to impose maximum wage rates within individual wage groups (Mosher 2001: 292,
citing Metallarbeiter Zeitung 37 (32) August 9, 1919: 125). The union rejected the idea of
wage maxima, which it would have been hard put to enforce in any case.
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1917–1918 7
1919 10
1920 8
1921 5
1922 4
1923 17
1924 2
1925 2
1926 5
1927 6
1928 3?
Source: Dehen 1928: 158.
1921: 8). Above all, employers in these sectors sought to keep vocational
training focused on objective, scientific, and technical training and free
from partisan struggles and class politics (see, for example, comments by the
head of the Association of Berlin Metal Industrialists in Kantorowicz 1930:
62–3).
Weimar years the VDMA emerged as “one of the most powerful, best orga-
nized, and, in many respects, most modern of trade associations” (Feldman
and Nocken 1975: 433).
In particular, the expansion had the effect of drawing into the associ-
ation increasing numbers of smaller producers, the so-called industrielle
Mittelstand. By 1923, the VDMA had grown well beyond the dominance
of large machine firms, organizing fully 90% of all machine construction
firms in Germany (Feldman and Nocken 1975: 422). Herrigel notes, “As the
1920s progressed, the VDMA’s former identification with the large autar-
kic producers gave way to a distinctive small- and medium-sized producer
orientation” (Herrigel 1996: 63). A number of these firms had traditionally
depended on regional vocational and technical institutions and, because
of the high mobility of skilled labor among firms, they also relied heavily
on general skills (Herrigel 1996b: 52). The VDMA played a key role, not
just in promoting coordination on skills but in coordinating the strategies
of these firms on a range of issues, including organizing competition and
maintaining term-fixing and specialization cartels (Herrigel 1996b: 63).
Enhanced coordination among machine companies through the VDMA
had important implications for skill formation and specifically for the drive
toward greater skill standardization. Such coordination discouraged firms
from engaging in (industry-degrading) cutthroat competition based on
lower wage, lower skill strategies and supported increased coordination
in training issues. The interests of the industrielle Mittelstand in the area
of training also dovetailed in very important ways with those of the Berlin
machine and metal firms, a key constituency behind training reform and
skill standardization. Thus, the new, more inclusive VDMA that emerged
from the war became, in the Weimar years, the “reform-oriented van-
guard of industry” in the area of vocational training (Schütte 1992: 28).
Whereas large firms that could support extensive internal labor markets
had long fixed on the goal of developing their own individual (company-
based) training programs, the industrielle Mittelstand had a greater interest
(and also deeper roots) in a collective solution to skill formation.51
The large companies that had dominated the VDMA before the war had
focused their energies primarily on the issue of certification, but the shifting
balance within the organization brought the issue of skill standardization
51 These were often also the kinds of firms and regions (and not the large firm sector) where
the metalworkers’ union was able to achieve a more substantial presence from early on
(Schönhoven 1979: especially 416–17).
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increasingly to the fore.52 In this regard, the agenda of the machine in-
dustry diverged from the previous trajectory set by the Handwerk-based
apprenticeship system. The Handwerk sector had long enjoyed certifica-
tion powers, but training was not particularly standardized (Wolsing 1977:
423–5). By its nature, Handwerk-based apprenticeship training depended
crucially on the specifics of the production process in which an appren-
tice was engaged. Since an apprentice learned through on-the-job training
and working at the side of a master artisan, the training depended heavily
on a number of shop-specific factors. Even in the best circumstances, the
content and quality of training were extremely sensitive to the pedagogic
skills of the employer and the particular kinds of work that came in over
the course of an apprentice’s tenure (Pätzold 1989: 264). Certification and
standardization were not necessarily a tightly integrated package.
The drive toward standardization was led by the VDMA, through
DATSCH, whose mission was redefined and redirected somewhat with
greater attention to the technical tasks associated with establishing a col-
lective framework for skill development in the industry. The 1920s mark
the high point of DATSCH’s most intensive efforts toward this goal (Muth
1985: 348–52). DATSCH’s pioneering work to systematize and rationalize
industry-based training earned it considerable prestige and established the
organization as a widely recognized authority in this area.53 By 1919, the
VDMA and the Association of German Metal Industrialists (GDM) had
already worked out an apprentice contract for the whole machine indus-
try (DATSCH Abhandlungen 1919: 6). In the 1920s, DATSCH produced a
standardized inventory of skilled trades for the metalworking industries (in-
cluding a number of new, specifically industrial trades), with profiles of the
skills required for each. The organization also generated and disseminated
standardized training materials, including very detailed training courses
52 Although it should be noted that even some of the large machine companies had begun to
question the limits of company-based training policies (Dehen 1928: 166–7; Pätzold 1989:
272). And, as the 1920s progressed, Germany’s large machine companies engaged in ongo-
ing internal rationalization efforts that also relied on a higher degree of skill standardization.
These companies had previously organized production around rather sprawling networks
of very specialized workshops, but by the late 1920s they sought to control costs through
rationalization efforts. This involved cutting wasteful duplication of efforts and more in-
terchangeability in deploying resources (including skilled labor) as dictated by changes in
the market. This required greater flexibility to rotate engineers and workers around the
various production areas as needed (Herrigel 1996: 106–8).
53 DATSCH received material support from the Reichskuratorium für Wirtschaftlichkeit
(DATSCH Abhandlungen 1926: 11)
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(Lehrgänge) for the various trades, beginning with the most common –
machine builders, fitters, toolmakers, patternmakers, moulders, smiths, and
precision mechanics. In this period, DATSCH presided over significant
steps forward in the standardization and systematization of skills, making
progress on these fronts well before industry enjoyed formal certification
powers.
In 1926 DATSCH also began developing skill profiles for a number of
semi-skilled occupations. This reflected the organization’s effort to prevent
companies from misusing the institution of skilled apprenticeship by having
apprentices perform tasks that involved a much narrower range of skills than
those expected of skilled industrial workers (Facharbeiter). An increasing
division of labor and accompanying skill specialization in metalworking
were underway in many countries, having started at the turn of the century
and being well advanced by the 1920s. DATSCH sought to prevent the
downgrading of skill by identifying and cataloguing certain occupations
as “semi-skilled” and by establishing a maximum two-year training period
for such occupations (Rathschlag 1972: 14–15). Stratmann notes that the
prestige that DATSCH enjoyed in this period grew to such an extent that
in the 1930s, even the handicraft sector allowed DATSCH to formulate
technical instructions for its apprentice training (Stratmann 1990: 47).
Although it is difficult to know how widely implemented DATSCH
concepts and methods were, there are indications that key industries such
as machine building employed them on a relatively broad scale (Schmedes
1931: 12). Referring to the model contract developed by the VDMA to ren-
der apprentice contracts more uniform among their member firms, Mack
notes that the model contract was “being utilized by firms with or with-
out minor changes made” and that only a few firms had their own con-
tract (Mack 1927: 93). Muth asserts that although the DATSCH guidelines
were voluntary, nonetheless, “with the support of the individual trade as-
sociations (Fachverbände) they were widely distributed in practice. In this
way the mechanical industry became the first sector in Germany to imple-
ment a broadly uniform system of vocational training” (Muth 1985: 350).
A contemporary observer, Gertrud Tollkühn, similarly asserted that the
guidelines and training materials that DATSCH produced and dissemi-
nated “were indeed used by most of the firms as a foundation” for their
training (Tollkühn 1926: 40). In the absence of regulatory powers like those
of the Handwerk sector, the capacity of firms to enforce uniform standards
rested on the participation of the unions, and especially, on the efforts of
strong trade associations like the VDMA.
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Table 2.3. Weekly wages (in Reichsmark, RM) for young workers in large, medium, and
small firms, 1929 (% of firms)
54 Handicraft firms were also likely to deduct pay from an apprentice for school attendance
(Schütte 1992: 127).
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never been as concerned with the supply of skilled labor. In many cases large
firms in this industry were more capable of pursuing successful segmen-
talist strategies (Hansen 1997: Chapter 3; Herrigel 1996b: Chapter 3). Such
companies often grew up in remote agricultural areas (that is, without much
of an infrastructure for education) so they were forced to create their own
skill capacities, but they were also less vulnerable to poaching than firms
in areas like Berlin where competition in skilled labor markets was fierce.
Where firms dominated their local labor market, they were able to attract
and keep good young workers and orient their training very closely to their
own internal needs (Kaiser and Loddenkemper 1980: 62).
The lack of a consensus within the larger industrial community was al-
ready clear in 1911 and 1914 when – at DATSCH’s urging – the “Social
Policy Commission” of the Congress of German Industry and Commerce
(Deutsche Industrie und Handelstag, or DIHT) took up the skill issue.
The commission’s reports echoed DATSCH’s criticisms of the existing
Handwerk-based system, as well as of the behavior of the Handwerk cham-
bers in withholding cooperation with industry. On the question of whether
industry should administer its own separate exams for apprentices, how-
ever, the commission had to conclude that “opinions within industry are
still so far apart that the DIHT cannot yet take a position on the issue”
(Hoffmann 1962: 43). The commission simply encouraged machine firms
to continue to use the craft chambers and advised them to “watch care-
fully” the composition of the examination boards to make sure that their
apprentices were examined against the appropriate standards. As Hansen
has pointed out, the opposition of the chambers of commerce (under the
strong influence of heavy industry) was decisive, since the chambers were
the ones who would have been charged with the task of overseeing skill
formation and certification for industry (Hansen 1997: 588).
Heavy industry grew even less accommodating during the Weimar years.
The leading firms had seen no alternative but to grudgingly accept ac-
commodation with unions during the revolution, but around 1924 and
1925 many reverted to their previous Herr-im-Hause stance.57 The de-
bate over possible legislative reform of vocational training did not go away,
however, and so in the mid-1920s heavy industry began espousing a more
ideological alternative to DATSCH’s thoroughly technical and collectivist
57 This turn coincides with the end of inflation, at which point demands with respect to
wages became much “harder” constraints in export markets. I thank Hartmut Berghoff for
emphasizing the significance of this to me.
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Dinta
As the debate on vocational training reform (and possible legislation) con-
tinued in the 1920s, and with VDMA and DATSCH representing advocates
of a collectivist solution, large industrial producers felt compelled to weigh
in in these debates with their own somewhat different interests and per-
spectives on skills and training. Thus, in 1925, and on the initiative mostly
of prominent Ruhr industrialists, Dinta was founded to represent the in-
terests of German heavy industry in the skill debates of this period. Dinta’s
first director, Robert Carl Arnhold (1884–1970) was originally trained as
an engineer, and began his career in training and pedagogy in the steel
industry. After a stint in the army during World War I, Arnhold had re-
turned to become head of training for the steel division of Gelsenkirchen
Bergwerk AG. Here he developed his ideas on training and presided over
the establishment of company-based training workshops (Lehrwerkstätte)
that were a central pillar of his pedagogy (Kaiser and Loddenkemper 1980:
60–6).
Whereas DATSCH represented a more collectivist approach to skill
formation that worked through key trade associations like VDMA and the
Berlin machine group, Dinta’s conception was more resolutely autarkic.
According to Arnhold’s vision, “the ideal new skilled worker would be tech-
nically well trained, but unlike his predecessor, who had learned his skills
from other workers in artisan shops, he would be trained by the firm and
for the firm’s particular needs. He would be loyal to the firm and adapt-
able (wendig) to the changing needs of the rationalized production process”
(quote from Nolan 1994: 189 and Chapter 9 passim; italics in original; see
also Arnhold 1931: 31). Arnhold’s training concept shared with DATSCH
a critique of the “unsystematic” nature of training by Handwerk, and it
recognized and in some ways built on the training materials DATSCH
was producing. Thus, the technical/practical component of Dinta training,
although firm-centered, was not narrow. Dinta training featured two years
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to training but also firm-based social policy more generally – was seen as
integral to the “fight for the souls of our workers” (quoted in Kaiser and
Loddenkemper 1980: 77). For these reasons, Dinta was opposed at all turns
by organized labor, which thought of Dinta as a “breeding ground for yel-
low unions” (Zuchtanstalt für Gelbe) (quote from Seubert 1977: 77; see also
Fricke 1930: 95–8).58
These autarkic and paternalistic features of the Dinta training concept
help to explain why the organization also rejected the idea of working
through employer associations and other organized interests to achieve
its goals. As Arnhold opined at a conference in 1930, “with this path, we
would probably have gotten stuck or organized ourselves to death” (Arnhold
1931: 31). Dinta also opposed all efforts to subordinate firm-based train-
ing to any sort of state or parapublic controls. The organization vigorously
promoted firm-operated factory schools (Werkschulen) using Dinta tech-
niques as substitutes for public trade schools (Nolan 1994: 195; Kellner
1930: 21). Again, this was a move consistent with the cooptative-autarkic
goal of transforming apprentices “into a new kind of skilled worker by es-
tablishing factory-based alternatives to artisan skill training and to state
vocational schools” (quote from Nolan 1994: 193; Seubert 1977: 67).59
Dinta originated in, and was particularly strong in, the iron and steel
industry of the Ruhr. However, the organization and its concepts appealed
to all large producers for whom accommodation with the unions had been
purely strategic and who longed for a return to a more autarkic and pa-
ternalistic alternative.60 Dinta’s major client firms included a number of
Germany’s leading industrial giants: Gutehoffnungshütte (GHH, which by
this time had purchased M.A.N.), Hoesch, Thyssen, Schalker, and Siemens-
Schuckert among them (Nolan 1994: 187). By contrast, however, Dinta had
“no influence among technologically advanced and less reactionary firms,
such as those in the electro technical and Berlin machinery industries”
58 Though, as Nolan notes, unions acknowledged that Dinta training was often of quite high
quality (Nolan 1994: 201–2). On the skepticism and opposition of even the Christian unions
see Kopsch (1928: 67–73; also the remarks by Rütten and Mleinek in Sozialen Museum
E. V. 1931: 56–9 and 77–8 respectively).
59 However, the numbers of apprentices attending such schools always remained rather small
(never more than 2% of apprentices) (Pätzold 1989: 280).
60 This is also how the Dinta Directorate over time came to include some of the founding
fathers of DATSCH who came out of large concerns (such as Ernst von Borsig and Gottlieb
Lippart), right alongside a number of prominent Ruhr industrialists who had never taken
an interest in DATSCH and its concepts (Nolan 1994: 187).
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(Nolan 1994: 187). The latter rejected the deeply ideological and partisan
slant taken by Dinta as irrelevant to, and possibly even counterproductive
to, the task of skill promotion. In explaining why his association did not
embrace and support the work of Dinta, Heinz Kantorowicz of the Asso-
ciation of Berlin Metal Industrialists noted that the majority of member
firms thought training should be kept free of political and class conflict
(Mallmann 1990: 217).61
By the late 1920s, however, the backlash against unions and collective
bargaining was in full swing, with stepped up efforts to use works coun-
cils as vehicles for a company-based and employer-dominated alternative
to union bargaining. In these years, Arnhold presided over a significant
expansion in Dinta’s influence. In just two years (1926–1928) Dinta opened
71 new plant-training workshops (Lehrwerkstätten) and 18 factory schools
(Werkschulen). By 1929, Dinta won over another 50 training plants to its
concepts, and Dinta principles were applied in 10 new plant schools (Kaiser
and Loddenkemper 1980: 77–8). By the end of the decade, Dinta was run-
ning training programs in between 150 and 300 companies in Germany and
Austria. It published over 50 company newspapers reaching nearly a half
million workers (Nolan 1994: 187).
61 See also the rather friendly tone of the exchanges between union representative Fritz Fricke
and Kantorowicz, as compared to the tense exchanges between Fricke and Dinta’s Arnhold
at a 1930 conference on industrial training (Sozialen Museum E. V. 1931).
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and provided sufficient glue to hold them together over the late Weimar
years.
The departure of the Social Democratic Party (Sozialdemokratische
Partei, or SPD) from government in 1923 was clearly contributory to the
failure of the reform movement.62 Under the SPD the Labor Ministry had
played a key role in the push for reform and was its strongest institutional
advocate. But once the Ministry was no longer in SPD hands, the pressure
for a law quickly subsided, and work on reform came to a somewhat abrupt
halt. Meanwhile, outside the government sphere, events in the late 1920s
continued to promote more intense inter-industry coordination on skills,
even as they completely undermined any possibility of state-led reform,
particularly any version based on union participation. In 1924, employers
began complaining of skill shortages, despite overall still high unemploy-
ment (Mosher 1999: 13). Studies also cite worries of a looming skill shortage
due to hit Germany in 1929 (a consequence of low birth rates during the
war) (Kopsch 1928: 25–6; Mack 1927: 3). Such concerns kept apprentice-
ship reform on the public policy agenda.
However, by this time, the political and economic climate had shifted
considerably. For one thing, unions had been on the defensive since the
stabilization crisis, and compulsory arbitration was increasingly filling in
where free collective bargaining failed. By 1929, over half of the (nearly
ten thousand) industrial conflicts concerning wages and hours were being
settled through arbitration, and almost 20% of the time the state medi-
ator’s decision was declared binding (Nolan 1994: 161–2). Thus not only
was labor much weaker, but also those sectors once most willing to contem-
plate some form of joint (labor-employer) regulation balked, as it increas-
ingly looked as if “union regulation” in the end meant “state regulation,”
the one thing most segments of German business – whatever their other
differences – wanted to avoid (Feldman 1970; Feldman 1977: especially
146). Combined with the continuing opposition of Handwerk and grow-
ing anti-unionism among big industry as a whole, this constellation formed
the basis of a coalition against reform, or better, in support of employer-
dominated “self-regulation” premised on voluntarism and the promise of
greater cooperation between Handwerk and industry (Ebert 1984: 318–20;
Herber 1930: 48; Schütte 1992: 84–7).
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63 Although it must be added that this was extremely difficult, since most Handwerker resisted
such moves as an infringement on their autonomy. Their chambers therefore had trouble
forcing the adoption of these materials (Pätzold 1989: 266–7).
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many regions had grown more accommodating, which is to say more will-
ing to strike local deals to test industrial apprentices, including in some
cases with “mixed” (industry/handicraft) examination committees (Mack
1927: 106).64 Finally, the coalition in support of collectivism based on em-
ployer domination and self- (as opposed to state) regulation was completed
when the key industrial associations reached a national agreement with
Handwerk, whose two main associations, the Congress of German Crafts
and Trades (Deutscher Handwerks und Gewerbekammertag or DHGT) and
the League of German Crafts (Reichsverband des Deutschen Handwerks),
joined the AfB in 1927 (Ebert 1984: 314; Muth 1985: 377).
These developments dealt the coup de grace to the by now increasingly
languid debate over legislative reform. Instead of a comprehensive new
law, industry and Handwerk reached a voluntary accommodation in peak-
level negotiations that committed local Handwerk chambers to work to-
gether with industry and trade chambers to preside over the examination
and certification of industrial apprentices (Schütte 1992: 84–5). This deal
had the effect, within industry, of hiving off any support that might have re-
mained or been mustered for reform through any sort of government action
by addressing the one issue that had rankled some segments of the business
community: certification and testing. The deal thus consolidated industry
behind a voluntary solution to the issue, as well as forging an alliance be-
tween Handwerk and industry (especially heavy industry) against reform
(Schütte 1992: 86–7). Or, as the executive committee of the DIHT put it
in 1929, “The DIHT has pointed out several times in the last years that in
light of the positive developments in apprenticeship training arrangements
on a voluntary basis . . . there is no urgent need for comprehensive legislative
regulation” (Hoffmann 1962:101, emphasis in original; see also Kopsch
1928: 14).
In the ensuing years it became clear that this was a fairly opportunistic
alliance of convenience that was not terribly robust. The solution forged
in 1928, which allowed for joint (artisanal–industry) committees in some
regional chambers, proved unstable, as some local craft chambers resisted
compliance (Kipp and Miller-Kipp 1990: 234; Schütte 1992: 86; Wolsing
1977: 74). Among other regulations, the 1928 deal had called for testing
boards composed of representatives of both industry and Handwerk. In
64 Including (as early as 1924) a deal struck between the HWK Berlin and the Association
of Berlin Metal Industrialists providing for joint examinations in industry and Handwerk
(Mack 1927: 106).
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1932, however, complaints could still be heard about the inability of in-
dustrial apprentices to be tested and certified (Kipp and Miller-Kipp 1990:
234). It was up to individual handicraft chambers to decide whether or not
to allow industrial apprentices to take the journeyman examination, and
problems continued (Pätzold 1989: 276). According to a survey of industry
and trade chambers, the difficulties went back to the unwillingness of the
handicraft chambers to recognize the results of tests that industrial appren-
tices took (Kipp and Miller-Kipp 1990: 234).
In any event, the time for reform had come and gone: vocational training
was off the agenda for the remainder of the Weimar years. The Depression
of 1929 killed any lingering hopes of reform, as vocational training spun
into crisis. Firms were engaged in massive layoffs and not in any position to
offer apprenticeship positions to youth. The number of company schools
“tumbled” after 1929 (Greinert 1994: 49). Between 1929 and 1934, appren-
ticeship slots fell by a third and did not climb back to 1929 levels until 1936,
and then only on the basis of a massive push by the state (Hansen 1997:
603–4). For their part, those young Germans who could find work were un-
der tremendous economic pressure to provide for unemployed family mem-
bers, and thus opted for unskilled work rather than embark on a long in-
vestment in apprenticeship to the skilled trades (Kaiser and Loddenkemper
1980: 13).
The certification that the machine industry sought in the Weimar years
was finally granted by the National Socialists, who presided over a massive
increase in vocational education and the inauguration of a standardized
system for industrial training, with industry and trade chambers – with pre-
rogatives now comparable to those of the handicraft chambers – in charge of
the administration and certification of training for skilled industrial work-
ers (Facharbeiter) (see Chapter 5). The system was built on foundations
laid down in the Weimar years. Apprenticeship training for industry was
explicitly patterned after the Handwerk model of plant-based training and
substantially incorporated the technical and organizational innovations de-
veloped on a voluntary basis by industry and, above all, by the machine
industry through the work of the VDMA and DATSCH.
The final piece of the puzzle, full labor participation in the oversight of
in-plant training, was achieved only much later, in the post-World War II
period. But here again, important developments were strongly foreshad-
owed in the Weimar years. Thus, for example, the demands of German
unions after 1945 (with respect to apprenticeship training) were virtu-
ally the same as those they made after World War I: not a dismantling of
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In the case of Germany, we saw that state policy in the early industrial period
was crucial to establishing the trajectory that skill formation there would
take. Legislation targeted at the artisanal sector contributed to the survival
of a relatively stable system of apprenticeship, and at the same time discour-
aged unions from pursuing skill-based strategies for labor market control.
Firms in industries that depended heavily on skills drew on the artisanal sec-
tor as a source of skilled labor but they also competed with Handwerk as a
corporate actor, especially over skill certification. This produced a dynamic
through which industry was pushed and pulled toward training practices
that built on, and in some ways paralleled, those developed in the artisanal
sector.
In Britain, state policy worked in the opposite direction, contributing
to the deregulation of traditional apprenticeship and indirectly encourag-
ing the development of skill-based unions pursuing strategies premised on
craft control. The legal framework in place in the nineteenth century dis-
couraged the formation of unions among unskilled laborers while encour-
aging skilled workers to organize around the provision of friendly society
benefits. Responding to this set of incentives and constraints, early trade
unions organized their strategies around the attempt to influence wages
and employment by manipulating the supply of skilled labor. This set up
a completely different set of dynamics in Britain in which apprenticeship
was contested not – as in Germany – between an independent artisanal sec-
tor and an emerging industrial sector, but rather between craft unions and
employers in skill-dependent industries.
Apprenticeship survived in Britain but what was not achieved was a
durable settlement between skilled unions and employers on the regulation
of in-plant training capable of punishing opportunism and making credible
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eighteenth century (Webb and Webb 1920: 53; Prothero 1979: Chapter 3).
As the Webbs put it,
The action of the House of Commons [at that time] was not as yet influenced by
any conscious theory of freedom of contract. What happened was that, as each
trade in turn felt the effect of the new capitalist competition, the journeymen, and
often also the smaller employers, would petition for redress, usually demanding the
prohibition of the new machines, the enforcement of a seven year’s apprenticeship,
or the maintenance of the old limitation of the number of boys to be taught by each
employer, [whereupon] the large employers would produce such a mass of evidence
that these protections were not necessary and indeed injurious of their ability to
compete. (Webb and Webb 1920: 53)
and journeymen in their works (Knox 1980: 78–80; see also Prothero 1979:
Chapter 3; Rule 1981: 114–16).
The failure of this alliance to protect (or revive) traditional privileges
through legislation in some ways cemented the common fate of small mas-
ters and journeymen, for it remained for both groups to find other means to
defend their position and status in the market. If the political and legal envi-
ronment was less auspicious than in Germany for defending the corporate
autonomy and status of master artisans, it was much more auspicious for the
development of trade unions that brought master craftsmen and journey-
men together, while also sharpening the distinction between this group and
the unskilled (see, for example, Rule 1988). The Combination Acts of 1799
and 1800 banned all forms of trade unions in Britain, but the prohibitions
fell far harder on unskilled than on skilled workers. Such laws as existed had
to be invoked by employers, and the latter were often reluctant to initiate
proceedings against the skilled workers on whom they relied most to keep
production going (Clegg, Fox, and Thompson 1964: 46–7; Rule 1988: 4–5).
Thus, many of Britain’s skilled trades founded very successful organizations
even during the period when the Combination Laws were in effect; some
of Britain’s skilled trades “have never been more completely organized in
London than between 1800 and 1820” (Webb and Webb 1920: 83–4).
In addition, and as important, state policy encouraged the growth of
associations of workers organized around the provision of mutual aid and
insurance, which also provided a site for forging bonds between downwardly
mobile artisans and skilled industrial workers (see, for example, Clark 2000;
Gosden 1961). So-called friendly societies, or “box clubs” (named after
the boxes in which the society’s contributions were kept) date back to the
seventeenth century in Britain, but they experienced a surge of growth
with the advance of the industrial revolution (Gosden 1961; Clark 2000;
Thompson 1963: 418).
Friendly societies were voluntary associations to which members made
regular contributions and on which they and their families could draw in
case of catastrophic losses due to sickness, death of the breadwinner, or un-
employment (Hopkins 1995; see also Baernreither 1893: 160–1; Eisenberg
1987: 94; Clark 2000: 356; Thompson 1963: 421). Journeymen were espe-
cially prominent members and founders of such organizations, but as Knox
points out “a good number of small masters [also] . . . retained membership
of a trade club or society as something to fall back on should trade fluc-
tuation prove unfavourable” (Knox 1980: 74). Britain’s skilled craftsmen
formed the kind of labor aristocracy that could afford the dues and often
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found it well worth their while to join associations that provided some in-
surance against impoverishment through sickness or old age (Clark 2000:
360; Hopkins 1995: 23; Prothero 1979: 27–8).
Although government officials were concerned that friendly societies
might be used as a front for illegal trade union activity (see, for example,
Webb, Webb, and Peddie 1911: 82), they also saw in these insurance clubs
an irresistible means for reducing the costs of supporting the poor under the
existing Poor Laws (Hopkins 1995; Clark 2000: 370–1). At the close of the
eighteenth century, “an upper class consensus emerged, which recognized
the need for a statutory framework for benefit societies . . . [which were]
seen as an ideal solution for curbing parish expenditure and encouraging
self-help among the lower orders” (Clark 2000: 370–1). These sentiments
found expression in the 1793 Act for the Encouragement and Relief of
Friendly Societies which sought to stabilize the legal and actuarial foun-
dation of the societies, while also subjecting them to some state oversight
(Brown and Taylor 1933). The law allowed friendly societies to register
with local authorities, thus obtaining a legally recognized status that would
allow them to protect their funds against fraud and embezzlement. So-
cieties that chose to register were required to submit their rules to local
magistrates who would inspect them to ensure that the society was not in-
volved in “subversive” activities, which would put them in violation of the
Act Against Sedition that had been passed a year earlier (Clark 2000: 371).
Subsequent legislation (1817) provided further incentives to founding such
societies by allowing registered societies to deposit their funds in savings
banks at a more favorable rate of interest than that prevailing in the market
(Hopkins 1995: 15).
2 The term “master” took on an entirely different connotation in Britain from that in Germany
(Eisenberg 1987). Whereas in Germany, a “master” referred to an artisan who had completed
the course of training and earned a master certificate, in Britain, the “master” did not
necessarily work at the trade at all; instead: “he directed it and found the capital” (Howell
1877: 835).
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and in many ways drew early unions toward craft control strategies as the
obvious means to defend their status and material interests in the market.
The conditions under which craft labor markets can be institutionalized
are extremely restrictive (see, especially, Jackson 1984) but that does not
keep skilled workers from trying. Unions wishing to establish control over
the market in skills must accomplish several things simultaneously. They
must secure monopoly control over the pool of skills within the relevant
labor market, a task whose success actually depends rather crucially on
the structure of the product market.3 Craft control involves establishing
organizational boundaries that, ideally, include all workers who compete
for the same jobs, while excluding the unskilled ( Jackson 1984; Klug 1993:
264). A craft union that successfully organized all eligible craftsmen would
then be in a position to establish and enforce a uniform set of conditions
under which its members would work, and to ensure compliance on the part
of employers by denying offending firms access to a skilled labor force (Klug
1993: 264). Equally important, by controlling access to jobs and benefits,
the union could prevent its own members from agreeing to work for an
employer on terms that did not meet the “standard rate” set and enforced
by the union.
In mid-nineteenth century Britain, state policy and legal and market
conditions encouraged artisans to adopt strategies based on craft control.
As we have seen above, there was space for skilled workers to organize even
when unions were illegal and this space only expanded with the repeal of
the Combination Laws in 1824. Early associations of skilled workers often
formed around the provision of friendly benefits, whose insurance func-
tions provided a selective incentive for workers to join. The Webbs viewed
friendly benefits as “a great consolidating force in Trade Unionism” in
Britain (Webb and Webb 1897: 158). Friendly societies commanded strong
mechanisms for enforcing discipline internally, through workers’ own ac-
cumulated contributions: “The member expelled for behaviour ‘contrary to
the interests of the trade’ had no claim on the money he had contributed;
and any member who had been paying in for some years was likely to
3 Craft unions typically strive to organize workers on a local or regional (most ambitiously,
national) basis, but the nature of the product is crucial to defining the necessary scope of
control. Where products are mobile, localized control of labor markets will fail, for the
goods can simply be produced elsewhere. This is why, historically, craft control has proved
most stable and prevalent in industries (for example, construction) where the product is by
definition not mobile and where therefore local labor market control suffices. I thank Peter
Swenson for emphasizing this to me.
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workers whose interests, with regard to training, were tied into craft-based
strategies of labor market control. Moreover, and again in sharp contrast to
Germany, British apprenticeship after the repeal of the Statute of Artificers
was a purely private contractual matter unregulated by any public or para-
public framework. No collectively defined rules – establishing the length
of training, limiting the number of apprentices, setting limits on who could
take apprentices, for example – governed the kinds of contracts that might
emerge. In some cases, apprentices and employers continued to sign formal
indentures, but in the vast majority of cases, indentures gave way over the
course of the nineteenth century to individual written contracts or informal
verbal agreements.
In the previous chapter we saw how important was certification’s role in
Germany in mitigating the problems of quality and mutual commitment
that typically plague plant-based apprentice training. In Germany, the deal
between apprentices and training firms was held in place by the interests
of both parties, and stabilized and underwritten by the certification process
that institutionalized disincentives for cheating on both sides. Similar mech-
anisms were not in place in Britain, and this led to several different kinds
of problems. First, the structure of the relationship between the apprentice
and the training firm made credible commitments on both sides difficult to
establish and maintain. In Germany, the master to whom a young worker
was apprenticed was directly responsible (and could be held accountable) for
the quality of training conferred. In Britain, by contrast, the employers who
signed the apprentice contracts were very frequently not directly involved in
the training. Rather, the task fell (or was explicitly delegated) to skilled jour-
neymen who were employed in the firm (Perry 1976: 33; More 1980: 44, 79,
142–3; Knox 1980: 118–19). Journeymen in charge of training apprentices
often served without additional pay or any explicit agreement about pre-
cise responsibilities and therefore had few incentives to use their own work
time in training (Howell 1877: 835–6; Fleming and Pearce 1916: 122).4
Social reformers at the time railed against the lack of accountability:
“The master to whom [the apprentice] was bound no longer taught him his
4 In addition, journeymen could use their influence over apprentices not just to convey the
skills of the craft but also to socialize youth into the secrets and norms of the trade that
protected their interests against employers (Eisenberg 1987). Hinton (1983: 95–6) notes
that frequently the first job an apprentice was taught was “keeping nix” which “consists in
keeping a bright look-out for the approach of managers or foremen, so as to be able to give
prompt and timely notice to the men who may be skulking, or having a sly read or smoke,
or who are engaged on ‘corporation work’ – that is, work of their own.”
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trade; he was, so to speak, pitch forked into the workshop to pick up his
trade as best he could, or to learn it from the many journeymen who were
there employed” (Howell 1877: 835). Even where foremen or supervisors
were charged with responsibility for apprentices, there were problems. In
many cases, foremen were under considerable pressure to simply get the
product out and were “too much burdened with routine duties to give much
attention to apprentices” (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 122).
In addition, Britain lacked any formal certification and examination sys-
tem to assess the quality of training that apprentices received in a given
workplace. There were thus few possibilities for sanctions against firms that
trained poorly or narrowly, either formal (revoking a firm’s license to train,
for example), or informal (for example through comparisons of apprentices’
examination scores that would affect a firm’s reputation for training). To
the contrary, British employers had for some time offered distinct “classes”
of apprenticeship. Small numbers of “premium” or “privilege” apprentices
were singled out for more systematic and comprehensive training, while
“ordinary” apprentices were simply set to work in a specific occupation
(Zeitlin 1996: 6; Tawney 1909a: 521).5 Even in industries such as engineer-
ing that relied heavily on skills, “ordinary” apprenticeship became more
informal and increasingly narrow over time, although – importantly and
paradoxically – without becoming any shorter, remaining at five to seven
years well into the twentieth century.
If employers faced fewer sanctions for failing to train their apprentices
well (and, given the long length of apprenticeship and the low wages at-
tached to it, enjoyed some incentives to exploit them as cheap laborers),
British youth also had fewer incentives to stick with their employers for the
full duration of the training period. To become a certified “skilled worker”
in Germany, a youth needed to complete an apprenticeship and pass an
exam. In Britain, there were many different ways to acquire “skilled” sta-
tus. It was entirely possible for a young man to “pick up” a trade through
an informal “learnership” in a firm or to simply use his ability to move
from company to company to acquire different skills. At the turn of the
nineteenth century, British firms had youths working for them under rad-
ically different sorts of arrangements – from formal indentures to highly
informal and fluid employment relationships. And, whereas in Germany
the most promising youths were certain to have been heavily recruited for
5 See Ministry of Labour (1928a: 18) for different “grades” or “classes” of apprenticeship (see
also 100–3, 104).
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6 This explains why the firms that developed the country’s best training programs (such as
Westinghouse) found that the most desirable young apprentices were precisely those who
were most reluctant to enter into an indentured relationship, preferring to take the respon-
sibility themselves for acquiring the skills they needed and then move on quickly to the best
paying positions. More on this below.
7 By the turn of the century, the ASE was even allowing some workers, “under certain condi-
tions, to join as probationary members at eighteen, and give them five years from that time
in which to obtain full wages, but this limit is not infrequently exceeded” (Booth 1903: 299).
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8 Given the ambiguous legal status of strikes, many conflicts were played out informally
(resistance to overtime, for example), but the first recorded strike over apprentice limitations
in the engineering industry is attributed to the Friendly Union of Mechanics (Knox 1980:
317).
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9 Between 1852 and 1866, membership rose from 9,737 to 33,017, and funds grew from
£ 7,103 to £ 138,113. The number of branches affiliated with the Society rose in this period
from 128 to 305 ( Jeffreys 1945: 75).
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strategy hinged not so much on large-scale strikes but rather on the “Strike
in Detail” which put pressure on individual employers to conform by depriv-
ing them of skilled labor. The advantage for the union was that it minimized
costs because only a small number of workers had to be supported at any
time (Webb and Webb 1897: 169). In this way, “craft rules were . . . enforced
for the most part without large-scale collisions with the employers as a body”
(Clegg, Fox, and Thompson 1964: 9).
This strategy worked rather well, not least because the economic context
at mid-century was highly auspicious and the fragmented industry struc-
ture (overwhelmingly small-scale operations) allowed unions to play firms
off against each other ( Jeffreys 1945: 54, 102; also Elbaum and Lazonick
1986: 4). When individual employers violated the standard rate or em-
ployed excessive numbers of apprentices, the union responded with pressure
(sometimes in the form of a delegation from the union) and, where neces-
sary, passive resistance. For example, in the case of too many apprentices,
members were instructed not to teach the boys; if the issue was nonpayment
of the standard rate, skilled men were withdrawn from the shop. If members
were fired for their actions, they would be supported by donation benefits
until they found another job ( Jeffreys 1945: 69). As the first secretary of the
ASE, William Allan, put it in 1867 in testimony to the Royal Commission:
“We are very little engaged in regulating” rates of wages, “they regulate
themselves, if I may use the expression” (quoted in Webb and Webb 1897:
169).10
This strategy of localized labor control was fraught with tension because
firms subject to unevenly enforced local union controls were competing in
increasingly sprawling interregional and international product markets. By
the 1870s, British producers faced more intense competition from other
European (especially German) and U.S. engineering firms (Clark 1957).
In the 1880s unemployment in the British engineering, shipbuilding, and
metal group rose to a level significantly (25%) above that of the rest of
industry (Clark 1957: 128, fn3). In this context, the ASE Executive Coun-
cil (already cautious of large-scale confrontations with employers after
the 1852 lockout) became even more conservative – and also more con-
vinced that labor market conditions had rendered obsolete the strategy of
10 Allan was deliberately exaggerating the non-conflictual orientation of British craft unions.
The context, after all, was one in which he was trying to persuade the Commission to
support measures that would put unions on sounder legal footing. I thank Jonathan Zeitlin
for emphasizing this to me.
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11 This conservatism had been a long-standing source of tension between the executive and
the branches. The branches and district committees carried out the trade policies of the
Society and had enough funds to get themselves into conflicts but not enough to carry them
through to completion. In the 1850s several branches had to be threatened with suspension
to force them to comply with executive decisions ( Jeffreys 1945: 73). In 1871–72 the rank-
and-file had dragged the executive into conflicts over the nine-hour day, the success of
which paved the way for the subsequent election of John Burnett (unofficial leader of the
strike) as general secretary of the ASE.
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The period between 1890 and 1915 witnessed the rapid introduction
of new technologies and production techniques, and in the engineering
and shipbuilding industries specifically, the widespread introduction of
semi-automatic machines that allowed employers to replace skilled workers
with semi- or even unskilled labor (Knox 1986: 174; also Clegg, Fox, and
Thompson 1964: 139–40; Price 1983). Among ASE members, turners (one
of the union’s two main constituencies) were particularly affected (Knox
1986: 174). The response of the union was to attempt to maintain control
through a policy of “following the work to the new machines,” that is, claim-
ing for their members the exclusive right to run new machines, irrespective
of the level of skill required. Moreover, and although previous attempts
at craft controls – for example, in 1883 – had been roundly defeated by
employers, economic recovery in the waning years of the nineteenth cen-
tury rendered labor markets tighter and emboldened skilled craftsmen to
re-assert previous controls (McKinlay and Zeitlin 1989: 35).
The changed technological and market context had, however, altered
the strategic calculus of British employers. As Clegg and colleagues point
out, before the 1890s employers had seen craft controls as a nuisance but
“tolerable . . . so long as conditions were stable or innovations gradual; but
they became intolerable when the rate of change increased” (Clegg, Fox, and
Thompson 1964: 168). Among other things, the ability of skilled workers
to enforce craft controls varied tremendously across different localities and
regions, and the market premium that accrued to producers unencumbered
by union controls (and therefore able to introduce machines and reorganize
production more easily) was substantial. Far from leveling the playing field,
the uneven effects of union policy introduced (for the affected employers)
maddening distortions in product market competition. The result was to
sharpen conflict with unions. The engineering employers struck back in
1897 with a massive mobilization in defense of “managerial prerogative.”
The story of the lockout has been told elsewhere, and cannot be dealt
with at length here (see, for example, Gray 1976). For present purposes,
the two main points concern the impact of the conflict on employers and
the outcome of the dispute. On the eve of the conflict, British engineering
employers were almost completely unorganized, but in the course of the
seven-month conflict, membership in the Engineering Employers Feder-
ation (EEF) soared, from 180 to 702 (Clegg, Fox, and Thompson 1964:
165; also Phelps Brown 1959: 162). As Clegg and colleagues note, “for the
leaders of the [newly founded] Federation . . . to extend the scope of a lock-
out, particularly at a time of improving trade, was a difficult if not unique
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operation. Their success was powerful testimony not only to the strength of
their feelings but also to a lack of fastidiousness in their methods” including
threats by large firms with extensive supplier networks to do business only
with employers who supported the Federation (Clegg, Fox, and Thompson
1964: 166). The outcome of the conflict was a virtually unalloyed victory
for the employers and one that struck directly at the decentralized control
strategies that the ASE had been pursuing on a range of issues, including
apprenticeship. The EEF forced the union to grant broad concessions on
managerial prerogatives, including acknowledging the right of employers
to hire non-unionists, the power to assign work on new machines unilater-
ally and at a wage rate satisfactory to the employee and employer, the almost
unrestricted right to call overtime, freedom to introduce piece rates, and the
abandonment of all restrictions on the employment of apprentices (Clegg,
Fox, and Thompson 1964:167; McKinlay and Zeitlin 1989: 36).
It is important, however, that the resolution to the conflict did not oblit-
erate the union.12 The terms of settlement specifically established collec-
tive bargaining and dispute resolution procedures that strengthened the
authority of the central union leadership vis-à-vis the union branches, and
it institutionalized dispute resolution procedures to enforce that control.
The effect of this on craft strategies was aptly summarized in 1914 by an
executive of the Engineers: “[p]revious to the 1897 lockout . . . the state of
disorganisation amongst the employers enabled us to secure our demands
[in shop disputes] with little or no previous negotiation. . . . Individual firms
could easily be approached” (quoted in Clegg, Fox, and Thompson 1964:
341). After the 1897 conflict (and under the terms of its settlement) the
ASE was expected “to discipline its locals, against threat of another sweep-
ing industrial lockout” (McKinlay and Zeitlin 1989: 36).
12 Nor for that matter did it lead to a complete reorganization of production in most of
engineering. This points to important differences from similar-looking struggles around
this time in Sweden and the United States. I return to this comparison in Chapter 4.
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they coveted. In Britain, engineering firms at century’s end had just scored a
victory over decentralized craft union controls and were motivated by quite
different objectives: institutionalizing a regime with the participation of the
national union, but designed above all to preserve managerial prerogatives
on the shop floor.
Apprenticeship was if anything less, not more, regulated after 1897.
Any notion of joint regulation (with the unions) of apprenticeship was not
considered – quite the contrary, as that issue was seen as part of the union
“control” package that had been so decisively defeated. Moreover, although
engineering employers in Britain had succeeded in banding together to
defeat union controls, they did not organize to coordinate among them-
selves alternative rules regarding in-plant training. Jeffreys argues that in
the wake of the 1897 conflict “employers, operating their right ‘to select
and train’ their workers, started flooding the shops with handymen and
boys” ( Jeffreys 1945: 156). On the union side, “the absence of any other
defined policy led the members to adopt isolated shop tactics. The phrase
regarding the employers’ right to train was taken literally and members
refused to assist or instruct newcomers in any way. Training was treated
as the employer’s responsibility to pursue as best he could” ( Jeffreys 1945:
157).13
Developments in this period in Britain hastened the decline of system-
atic apprenticeship through their effects on both employers’ behavior and
the incentives that youth faced. First, significant numbers of employers –
including some (though by no means all14 ) engineering employers – turned
to apprentices as a source of cheap productive labor. Second, and partly in
consequence, formal apprenticeship (under either written or verbal agree-
ment) lost the attractiveness it had once held for youths, as fewer young
people were willing to forgo the higher wages they could earn for unskilled
work and to embark on a long-term commitment to training with uncer-
tain payoffs. Though these two trends overlap and interrelate, the following
discussion treats them, to the extent possible, sequentially and in turn.
13 Even beyond the union’s official policy, the disinclination of skilled workers generally to
train new recruits was exacerbated by an increase in piecework in engineering in the years
following the union’s defeat. Any time a skilled worker spent on an apprentice came at the
expense of his own earnings ( Jeffreys 1945: 206). Knox cites figures indicating that “by
1914, 46 per cent of fitters and 37 per cent of turners were on piece rates, compared to
only 5 per cent of all engineering and boilermaking workers in 1886” (Knox 1986: 176).
14 See below for a discussion of the very different strategies of Britain’s largest and most
progressive engineering firms.
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The problem of cheap “boy labour” was widely criticized at this time in
the business and academic press but a practical reality on the shop floor
(Bray 1912; Dunlop and Denman 1912; Tawney 1909a: 519 and passim).
The specialization of production processes brought about by technological
changes was part of the problem. Tawney quotes one firm as reporting that
“Boys are kept as a rule in their own departments. They are not taught, they
are made to work” (Tawney 1909a: 522; see also Tawney 1909b: 304). He
quotes a Glasgow employer, who bluntly summarized the prevailing logic:
“‘to put an apprentice on a valuable machine is a waste of money unless he
is specialised to it, and in all trades the longer the boy is kept at the process
the sooner does he become economically profitable” (Tawney 1909a: 521).
The labor of apprentices specialized to particular machines could quickly
be turned to profit and the combination of continued long apprentice pe-
riods (still five to seven years in Britain) and the low wages they earned
made this strategy attractive for some employers (on these developments
see especially Knox 1980: v and passim).
Although these practices differed quite a lot across firms and especially
across industries,15 the “proletarianization of apprentices” in Britain at the
turn of the century was the subject of a vast literature, one that sparked a
broad debate that has no equivalent in Germany at the time (Bray 1909;
Bray 1912; Dunlop and Denman 1912; Fleming and Pearce 1916). As one
contemporary noted, “inquiry shows that several tendencies are at work to
assimilate the position of the boy who is nominally an apprentice or learner
to the position of the boy who is employed simply as a labourer” (Tawney
1909a: 519). Another bemoaned the long-term effects of the decline of ap-
prenticeship, as boys were increasingly “set to perform the same operation,
and acquire skill and dexterity only in that one direction. . . . As men they
are skilled, not in a trade, but in a single operation of that trade” (Bray
1909: 413; Tawney 1909b). Reformers and advocates of strong plant-based
training complained that “Even where apprentice agreements are drawn
up, too often youths are exploited on repetition work, and no heed is given
to the obligations due to the youth or to the community” (Fleming and
Pearce 1916: 122).
Another development in this period, related to the technological changes
discussed above and the conflicts these provoked with skilled unions, was
15 More, for example, insists that the exploitation of apprentices was exaggerated, and notes
that training did continue to take place in those industries (engineering prime among them)
in which production continued to rely heavily on skill (More 1980: passim).
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We saw that by the first decade of the twentieth century in Germany, ap-
prenticeship was an attractive route from the perspective of both promising
young boys and their parents, who saw advantages to forgoing higher wages
for a well-defined (three- to four-year) period in exchange for the promise
of skill certification that enjoyed widespread and growing recognition in
the market. The capacity of the handicraft sector to certify the skills they
conferred had prompted leading machine firms to seek similar certification
powers for themselves in order to exercise greater control over the content
of training.
In Britain, formal apprenticeship looked much less attractive. The differ-
ence was not in the wages trainees received, for in Germany as in Britain,
apprentice wages were well below the rate for skilled workers and even
many unskilled jobs. As we saw in Chapter 1, low wages may help stabi-
lize training by shifting the costs, at least partly, onto (credit-constrained)
trainees. Rather, the key differences from the German practice were in the
length of training and especially in the advantages such training conferred.
British youth were subject to a much longer training period – between
five and seven years throughout most of the engineering industry. The
length of the apprenticeship had almost nothing to do with the time re-
quired to learn a craft. It was determined mostly by the age at which an
apprentice began, continuing typically to the age of 21, “since on the at-
tainment of that age it is open to the apprentice to repudiate the contract”
(Ministry of Labour 1928a: 83). As Table 3.1 indicates, in 1909 about one-
half of engineering apprentices served five years and over a quarter of them
served a full seven years.
If this were not enough, trainees were often expected to serve an ad-
ditional period of “improvership” before they could qualify for full adult
skilled wages. Describing conditions in the engineering industry in 1903,
Booth notes that “a lad’s period of nominal apprenticeship would normally
end at age 21” but “must not have been of less than five year’s duration,
and after that he is usually expected to serve a further period as ‘improver’ ”
which amounted to another one to three years with wages ranging “from
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half to three-quarters of the full men’s rate . . . the employers using their dis-
cretion quite without let or hindrance in this respect” (Booth 1903: 299).
Since the vast majority of apprentices and learners – at least in engineer-
ing (according to More, 90% ([More 1980: 73]) – were required to serve
such improverships, an engineering apprentice in Britain was looking at a
very long-term commitment before he achieved “skilled status” or more
precisely, until he would be entitled to the full adult skilled rate.
The second key difference from German practice is the lack of formal
certification awarded to an apprentice on completion of his or her training,
and, related to that, some guarantee that training would be of relatively
high quality. In the absence of regulations and monitoring of training, or
any clear standards to which employers could be held accountable, youth
in Britain faced a situation in which it often made no sense to them to
submit to years of reduced wages with very uncertain returns. As Dunlop
and Denman point out, “the boy has no desire to bind himself for a long
period of years to serve for low wages when he can easily earn more money
in other ways, while his father is unwilling to pay a premium when he can
obtain no guarantee that his son will be properly taught the trade” (Dunlop
and Denman 1912: 330, fn1). Working class parents, strapped financially,
were especially dubious about the advantages of apprenticeship, and “lads
[were] drawn to [unskilled] work for the higher wages they [could] earn”
(Bray 1909: 414; Bray 1912: 137).
The pull of so-called “blind alley” jobs was overall much greater in
Britain than in Germany at this time, not least because boys left school
earlier, more typically at 12 against 14 in Germany. Citing statistics gath-
ered by a government-sponsored Education Committee, Reginald Bray
painted a bleak picture: Between 11 to 17% of 14- to 17-year-olds were re-
ported to be entering skilled trades, as against 28 to 34% entering low-skill
occupations, along with another approximately one-third of 14-year-olds
who became errand and shop boys (Bray 1909: 143).16 Tawney finds the
same thing for Glasgow (1909): 53.6% of boys left elementary schools
to become milk boys or lorry boys, 24.6% to become unskilled workers,
and only 12% to enter into an apprenticeship or learnership (Knox 1980:
42).17 No wonder contemporaries who bemoaned the decay of indentured
16 The problem was especially intense in metropolitan labor markets, where the opportunities
for low-skill service jobs were greater. Thanks to Jonathan Zeitlin for emphasizing this
to me.
17 Some of this slightly exaggerates the problem, as some youth did take up an apprenticeship
after one or two years out. But there was an overall decline between 1901 and 1911 in
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young workers employed in skilled trades (Knox 1980: 54). In key trades such as fitting,
turning, and erecting, for example, the number of workers under 21 years old was 33,794
in 1901 and had dropped by over 5,000, to 28,403 by 1911. The story is similar for other
trades.
18 As Childs writes: “A report from Glasgow suggested that most boy labourers and learners
(as opposed to bound apprentices) passed through at least six jobs between fourteen and
twenty-one; more often the figure was twelve jobs, while figures of twenty to thirty were
not unheard of ” (Childs 1990: 791).
19 More argues that the problem of apprenticeship defection has been overstated, and he
notes that an apprentice who absconded “risked forfeiting his ‘lines’ – his certificate at
leaving which showed that he had served so many years” (More 1980: 77). My point is
that in Britain there were other ways of achieving skilled status and that completing an
apprenticeship required a much longer commitment than in Germany.
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craftsman” (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 122). Perhaps most tellingly of all,
these training experts advocated a shortening of the length of apprenticeship
to five years maximum (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 162).
As premier training firms such as Westinghouse experienced first-hand,
the most promising youth were among the least likely to seek out a formal
apprenticeship in Britain, confident as they were that they could achieve
skilled status without binding themselves to a particular employer. The en-
gineers who helped develop Westinghouse’s training program describe the
problem well: “The lack of a definite plan of training is responsible for a
great decline in apprenticeship of any kind, because in many works the shop
youth who is not ‘bound’ is able not only to earn more money, but has all the
privileges of a formally apprenticed youth, so far as either have any at all.
Such a system is, of course, fatal to the success of a sound apprenticeship sys-
tem, since the most promising boys are unlikely to commit themselves to a
long period of service at small wages without any special ultimate advantage
to themselves” (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 122–3). Thus, when the British
Westinghouse Company began to set up its training program in 1913, they
quickly determined that the boys who were working at the company under
formal apprenticeship agreements were among the least promising trainees.
“It would seem that the system [of apprentice contracts] generally attracted
a poor type of youth, who was anxious to possess the security that a pe-
riod of apprenticeship would give, while the most intelligent youths moved
about from shop to shop, and trusted to their experience to enable them to
acquire a steadily progressive rate of wages and standard of work” (Fleming
and Pearce 1916: 141–2).
The situation in Britain at century’s end and up to World War I was
aptly summarized by the Webbs: “There are to-day so many opportunities
for boys to earn relatively high wages without instruction, that they are
not easily induced either to enter upon a term of educational servitude
at low rates, or to continue on it if they have begun” (Webb and Webb
1897: 477). They continue: “the system of apprenticeship has lost what
was really its main attraction. . . . What the father and the apprentice were
willing to pay for was, not the instruction, but the legal right to exercise
a protected trade. When this right to a trade could be obtained without
apprenticeship. . . . father and sons alike have always been eager to forgo its
educational advantages” (Webb and Webb 1897: 477–8).
By the first decade of the twentieth century, some similarities but also
several key differences had emerged in apprenticeship training in Germany
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and Britain.20 Apprentice wages in both countries were low – this being a
mechanism through which firms shifted part of the cost of training onto the
youth, a practice particularly important to smaller producers. In Germany,
however, handicraft producers faced incentives to train well. If they did
not, they would lose their license to train and, with it, the cheap extra
hand in production. Similar monitoring devices were lacking in Britain,
so that there were no real sanctions against British employers who chose
to specialize apprentices on particular machines to the detriment of their
training.
In addition, there was considerable uncertainty in Britain regarding the
quality of training and the value of formal apprenticeship. One of the fac-
tors that shored up apprenticeship in Germany was the existence of “clearly
defined and formally recognized qualifications [that provided] a ‘currency
of exchange’ between employers and employees and between educational
institutions and learners” (Cruz-Castro and Conlong 2001). This type of
certification and recognition was lacking in Britain, making it highly un-
certain on the employer side exactly what skills even a fully apprenticed
worker possessed (hence the need for an additional period of “improver-
ship” in the vast majority of cases), and highly dubious on the side of
youth what benefits were associated specifically with apprenticeship as op-
posed to the other more informal methods available for achieving “skilled”
status.
20 The categories around which this summary is organized come from Cruz-Castro and
Conlong (2001).
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into the field ordered legions of trained workers equipped with intellectual
weapons, and clothed with sound science. . . . We have, however, one chance
left; we must adapt our system to the new social order, and drill and train
our workers in a systematic and scientific apprenticeship” (quoted in Knox
1980: 35).
A number of voluntary and philanthropic organizations attempted to
redress the problems associated with apprenticeship training in Britain (see
especially Knox 1980; Chapter 9). Their efforts are noteworthy because
they point to the way that contemporaries understood the problems of
youth training and underscore important differences from the institution
in Germany. The problems described above – exploitation of trainees by
employers, waning interest on the part of youth in apprenticeship – attracted
the attention of a number of voluntary societies in Britain in the late nine-
teenth and early twentieth centuries. In particular, Jewish and Christian
organizations became involved in forging connections between training
firms and the youth in their communities. This movement began with the
formation, in 1868, of the Industrial Committee of the Jewish Board of
Guardians, followed in 1886 with the founding of a parallel organization,
the East London Apprenticing Fund for Christian Children ( Jevons 1908:
455–6).
These organizations took as their goal the initiation and successful com-
pletion of training for youth in their communities. They offered a number
of services, establishing contacts between firms and apprentices, directing
trainees to appropriate firms, and assisting companies in locating suitable
apprentices. They also frequently stepped in to pay a premium (or fee) to
the company (as a loan to the apprentice), a measure associated with an
explicit promise on the part of the firm to offer these apprentices more
systematic and comprehensive training than they could expect as regular
(non-premium or “trade”) apprentices. Such organizations often assigned
to each apprentice a “guardian” who would monitor the trainee’s progress
through periodic workshop visits, and at the same time make sure that the
employer was holding up his end of the agreement ( Jevons 1908: 455–6;
Knox 1980: 299–301).21
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A more expansive effort (at least in its aspirations), and one that adopted
many of the same practices pioneered by the previous organizations was the
Apprenticeship and Skilled Employment Association. This London-based
organization began work in the first decade of the twentieth century, and op-
erated as an umbrella for what its organizers hoped would become a national
network of local Apprenticeship and Skilled Employment Committees. By
1909, the national association had established 17 committees in London and
10 committees in other cities including Glasgow and Edinburgh (Dunlop
and Denman 1912: 326; Knox 1980).22 This association aimed at “encour-
aging the entry of children into good trades and occupations with prospects,
by offering advice to parents and by finding definite and suitable openings
for the children” (quote is from Jevons 1908: 455; see also Bray 1909: 404).
Although not associated with any particular religious or cultural organiza-
tion, this movement, like its predecessors, was a completely voluntary and
philanthropic operation. Staffed largely by women officers, the organiza-
tion reflected middle class concerns about the growing numbers of youth
flowing into blind alley jobs (Dunlop and Denman 1912: 326–7). Local
committees nurtured strong relations with elementary schools and boys’
and girls’ clubs within their areas,23 and they organized their work around
finding suitable apprentice positions for youth in firms and establishing the
terms of the contract “with a view to securing fair conditions to the em-
ployee, and satisfactory workers to the employer” (Dunlop and Denman
1912: 327).
These committees took it upon themselves not just to make the con-
nection between apprentice and employer (and pay the premium for the
apprentice, mostly on a loan basis), but also to provide some monitoring
of the training process itself. “The work of the Committee does not cease
with the placing of the boy or girl. A watch is kept over his progress
throughout the time of apprenticeship or period of learning the trade.
This is often done through a ‘visitor’ or ‘guardian,’ who is asked to take
a generally friendly interest in the progress of his charge, and to report
on it to the Committee” ( Jevons 1908: 457). In some cases, the com-
mittee even acted as direct intermediary and contractor between appren-
tice and employer: “When possible, the Committee uses its own form
of indentures, which contains a special clause allowing a representative
to act as fourth party with power to cancel the agreement, should it be
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necessary either through the failure of the employer to fulfil his contract
to teach the trade, or through the bad behavior of the apprentice” ( Jevons
1908: 457).
The efforts of these voluntary and philanthropic societies are notewor-
thy, especially in comparison to Germany, as an attempt to devise some
kind of institutional infrastructure that could underwrite apprentice con-
tracts and monitor compliance on both sides – in effect, to serve some
of the functions performed in Germany by certification through compul-
sory handicraft chambers. From the perspective of the theories outlined in
Chapter 1, these committees did serve a number of functions that would
have been useful to all parties – facilitating the dissemination of informa-
tion about employment prospects in various trades, providing information
to parents and apprentices about “good” and “bad” employers from the per-
spective of training, providing oversight mechanisms that would throw a
spotlight on both the quality of training offered by employers and the efforts
and progress of apprentices themselves (Dunlop and Denman 1912:327).
Contemporaries rightly praised the work of these committees for drawing
attention to the problems of juvenile labor that were rampant at the time,
and for taking measures to ameliorate these problems – at least on a limited
basis.
Therein lay the real problem – the limited reach of these programs.
Whereas in Germany a very large proportion of apprentice training took
place under the auspices of the compulsory handicraft framework, Britain’s
voluntary system for oversight and monitoring simply never covered a sig-
nificant number of trainees (see especially Knox 1980: 301–2). The most
ambitious efforts by the Apprenticeship and Skilled Employment Com-
mittees resulted in the placement of 300 boys and girls in the first year of
their existence. This number rose to around 500 by 1907, and in 1909 the
committees placed 187 male and 259 female apprentices (along with about
double that combined number of male and female learners). The efforts
of these voluntary associations were scattered and uncoordinated, however.
Although they were acknowledged (for example, in a government report
from 1909 on youth education), it was also noted that these initiatives re-
mained very limited in scope and impact (Education 1909a: 63). Moreover,
the committees declined after 1909, a consequence in part of the extension
of the government labour exchanges instituted in that period. Bray notes
that in London (where the Association was most active) not more than 2%
of boys who left elementary schools came “under the influence of these
associations” (Bray 1912: 91).
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for the youth into whose further training they intended to pour additional
firm resources. Armstrong Whitworth (Manchester) and Barr and Stroud
(Glasgow) also took account of the educational achievements and even ex-
tracurricular activities in their selection process (More 1980: 67). Cadbury
Brothers (Birmingham) required its incoming apprentices to have com-
pleted two years of evening school study (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 99).
Once an apprentice had entered the firm, these employers in various
ways promoted the continuing participation of trainees in evening techni-
cal classes, paying the student’s class fees, for example, or relieving trainees
of the obligation to perform overtime (or in some cases letting them leave
early on the day their evening class was to meet). Such were the poli-
cies, for example, of W. H. Allen, Son & Co., Ltd. (Bedford) and Palmers
Shipbuilding and Iron Company Ltd. ( Jarrow).26 Palmers instituted an ad-
ditional system of incentives, raising the wages of apprentices as they pro-
gressed through technical classes.27 Less common was the policy adopted
by Mather and Platt, which made attendance at evening technical classes
compulsory for all apprentices employed in the firm, and which also paid
or reimbursed the students’ school fees, contingent on good performance
(Education 1909b: 350).
One of the most celebrated training programs in Britain before World
War I was that developed by the British Westinghouse Company.28 The
company set up a works school in 1913, and it began operation in 1914 with
100 boys chosen for the program based on interviews. The boys participated
in a program of instruction held in the company works school organized into
subjects ranging from arithmetic to specific trade classes relating to skills
the company required. Although the program enrolled only a very small
number of the company’s young workers (about 5% of boys under 18 years
of age who were employed at the time), the number of apprentices in the
works had risen to 272 (or 23%) by a year later (1915) (Fleming and Pearce
1916: 155–6). Significantly, these training initiatives were associated with
a revival of bound indentures, and acceptance into the program required
26 Beyond this, Allen and Son also instituted a smaller program for a select group of premium
apprentices who were being groomed for “positions of responsibility.” For these appren-
tices the company arranged additional plant-based theoretical instruction including science
lectures during the winter months.
27 In the case of Palmers, however, the company itself reported, “the scheme has not, up to
the present time, been largely taken advantage of.”
28 This discussion draws on the account of Fleming and Pearce, two engineers who played a
significant role in developing and running the program there (1916).
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the boys’ parents to sign a formal agreement committing the youth to stay
at the firm until the age of 21 (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 148). Other
companies (such as Vickers, Sons and Maxim Ltd. of Sheffield) also used
private contracts to bind boys to their training term (Knox 1980: 343).
There are some important similarities between these practices and those
developed by the large metalworking firms in Germany before the war –
the overall structure and objectives of the best training facilities, and the
lack of significant participation by organized labor, for example. One is also
struck, however, by some key differences, among them an overall higher
degree of stratification of training programs in British engineering firms
and a greater emphasis (superfluous in the German context) on measures
to facilitate apprentices in attending technical classes outside of working
hours. A number of firms took on different “grades” of apprenticeship –
so-called premium versus “ordinary” or trade apprentices.29 Most often,
the more elaborate programs described above (providing true all round
training) were specifically meant for only a small subset of apprentices who
were explicitly being groomed for leadership positions in the firm.
More generally, however, the training a boy could expect to receive was
often at least in part a function of the educational background he brought
with him to the firm. In the case of Vickers of Sheffield, youths with a high
school or grammar school education might qualify for a two-year course
at the local Technical Department of Sheffield University, paid for by the
company and made possible by the grant of a two-year leave of absence from
the apprenticeship (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 99). Similarly, the apprentice
program established in 1906 by Cadbury Brothers (Birmingham), took very
few apprentices and only those who had completed two years of evening
courses were admitted to the company-sponsored trade classes (Fleming
and Pearce 1916: 99).
Talented “ordinary” apprentices could work their way up in the ranks by
demonstrating exceptional motivation or skill. Certainly the policies of the
premier training firms were designed to discover and promote ambitious
young workers – for example, by providing various incentives for trainees
to enroll themselves in evening technical classes or by rewarding them for
29 See More (1980: 104–6) on “premium” apprenticeship, which was distinguished from or-
dinary trade apprenticeship by more comprehensive training and (related to that) payment
by the apprentice of a fee to the firm of between fifty to a hundred pounds. More suggests
that “premium apprenticeship was widespread in [the engineering] industry . . . before the
First World War” and cites evidence that it even continued in some engineering firms in
the 1920s and 1930s, though in diminishing numbers (More 1980: 104–5).
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good marks they received there. By contrast, it is not clear that the practi-
cal in-plant component of training was so different from or so much more
systematic than that of other firms. Even in the top engineering firms, such
training normally took place not in specialized workshops (as in Germany’s
top training firms) but rather on the job and under the guidance of skilled
journeymen or foremen, with many of the accompanying problems cited
above.30 Firms such as Clayton and Shuttleworth (agricultural machines, in
Lincoln) and Elswick Works of Armstrong (armaments) boasted that they
provided their apprentices with an all-round training through systematic
progression through the works, but even More, who is overall rather opti-
mistic about training in this period, admits that this was “perhaps unusual”
and notes other cases where breadth of experience may have been “more by
chance than design” – and only “rarely the result of a carefully thought out
plan by management” (More 1980: 85–6). Even in the celebrated British
Westinghouse case, there were reports that training “was ‘quite haphazard’;
there was little effective supervision, and although apprentices were meant
to be moved in accordance with a plan of training, they could simply ask
and be moved” (More 1980: 85).
The policies of Britain’s premier training firms must be understood
against the backdrop of the quite different (compared to Germany) educa-
tional infrastructure they faced. A significant structural problem in Britain,
from the perspective of these firms, was the overall lower level of state-
sponsored, compulsory education and training for British youth. First and
most fundamentally, compulsory elementary education was a more recent
phenomenon in Britain than in Germany. The Elementary Education Act
of 1870 had created a national system of elementary schools (Perry 1976:
17) but local school boards exercised wide discretion and allowed a variety
of exceptions (Sadler and Beard 1908: 320–1). Subsequent legislation raised
the compulsory school age and narrowed the discretion of local authorities
when it came to younger boys and girls.31 In 1904 about 32% of British
30 Fleming and Pearce cite conflicts in some firms between apprentice supervisors and fore-
men, the former being concerned with training whereas the latter were more interested in
output (Fleming and Pearce 1916: 122). More notes that it appears to have been very rare
to establish separate training workshops, as most training was in the context of the actual
production process. Moreover, very few engineering firms (in 1925, 26 of 1,573) employed
separate “apprentice masters” charged specifically with responsibility for training (More
1980: 86).
31 Legislation in 1880 required local authorities to mandate school attendance up to 10 years
of age (Sandiford 1908: 320). Further legislation raised the minimum age step by step, to
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11 years of age (1893), 12 years (1899), and 13 years (1902) (Sandiford 1908: 320–1, for
1893 and 1899; Zeitlin 1996: 17, for 1902).
32 Dunlop and Denman, for example, report that “out of an average number of 47,360 partial
exemption scholars given in the returns for 1906–07, 34,306 were employed in factories;
20,302 of these were Lancashire children, the majority of whom probably were working
in the cotton mills; 10,517 were returned for Yorkshire, and they, it may be assumed, were
for the most part engaged in the worsted manufacture” (Dunlop and Denman 1912: 312).
33 On the history of trade oriented “mechanics institutes” and continuation schools in Britain,
see especially Kelly (1992), Sadler (1908a), Sadler and Beard (1908: 21–31).
34 For example, the Manchester Education Committee provided monthly reports to firms
that were paying for their apprentices to attend classes. The reports contained information
on attendance, progress, and conduct in school (Education 1909a: 92–3).
35 Though the figures were higher in London and the County Boroughs, up to 25 to 30% at
the high end.
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36 In an interview published in 1908, Dr. Georg Kerschensteiner, one of the key architects of
compulsory continuation schools in Germany, noted that without compulsion “carelessness
and greed” on the part of employers would inevitably interfere with attendance (Stockton
1908: 543). As we have seen, Germany was much further along in requiring attendance at
this time.
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37 A conclusion not shared by the consultative committee, whose members felt that a substan-
tial number of these youths would be too tired to learn much of anything at all (Education
1909a: 170).
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skilled unions (despite strike losses, organization levels were relatively high
in engineering) and the multiplicity of unions represented in any given firm
made policies based on internal labor markets difficult to implement. In the
face of these constraints, and the problems of labor mobility across firms,
many employers adapted to the logic of the context and focused significant
energy on a relatively small number of apprentices who arrived in the firm
with well over the minimum educational qualifications and who could be
targeted by the company for leadership positions and long-term employ-
ment. For the larger numbers of “ordinary” apprentices, they were more
likely to rely on relatively inexpensive measures (relief from overtime, for
example) designed to encourage youth to seek additional training outside
the firm – but mostly on their own time.
One sees in these strategies an attempt on the part of these firms –
perfectly rational given the context – to minimize “irrecoverable” invest-
ments in training by privileging youth who arrived with more than the min-
imum and by insisting in various ways on apprentices themselves (who were,
after all, the real beneficiaries of their increasing human capital) bearing a
significant share of the costs of their own training – all the while lobbying
for the socialization of such costs as well as complementary policies to force
other firms to bear their fair share of the costs required to generate the skills
on which they all relied.
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38 In some industries, unions raised concerns about the negative effect of increasing compul-
sory educational requirements on the incomes of poor families. This is the reason given,
for example, by skilled operatives in Britain’s textile districts for opposing proposals put
forth by the leaders of their own union for an abolition of half time employment for youth
under 13 years of age and for raising the age of compulsory school attendance (Educa-
tion 1909a: 142, 287). Tawney, a leading proponent of technical education, viewed such
positions with skepticism, arguing that organized workers, “with left-handed kindness, pre-
vent [poor youth] from overcrowding some trades, and indirectly intensify the struggle in
others” (Education 1909a: 316).
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39 See Knox (1986) and Ministry of Labour (1928a: 135–7) on various agreements between
unions and employers discussed here.
40 In the building industry as well, “leading firms took the initiative on the apprentice question”
(Knox 1986: 181). In 1916 an agreement on apprenticeship was worked out between the
Institute of Builders, unions, and the Labour ministry; it, unfortunately, was not successfully
implemented, partly because of the war (Knox 1986: 181).
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militancy; skilled labor shortages in 1911 and 1912, for example, allowed
the union in many cases successfully to reimpose on employers previously
defunct restrictions in the use of unskilled workers on skilled jobs (Zeitlin
1996: 19).
41 In engineering, the proportion of boys to men also rose between July 1914 and April 1917
from 13.9 to 20.8% (Ministry of Labour 1928a: 13).
42 On the reform initiatives of this period, see especially Zeitlin (2001).
43 Sir Arthur Fleming, for example, who served as director of training at British Westinghouse,
took part, as did A. E. Berriman, who was chief engineer at Daimler (Zeitlin 1996: 25).
44 The original plan called for 320 hours of compulsory coursework per year for all youth up
to the age of 18. In the law that ultimately passed, the introduction of compulsory classes
for 16- to 18-year-olds was to be delayed for seven years after the war, and local authorities
could reduce mandatory continuation school hours from 320 to 280 for the interim period
as well (Zeitlin 1996: 22). For the provisions of the legislation, as well as some commentary,
see Brereton (1919).
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(Zeitlin 1996: 26; also Zeitlin 2001). These initiatives were followed up
by another meeting, convened by Fisher in London in May 1919, that
brought together 49 leading representatives of industry, commerce, and ed-
ucation, and resulted in the founding of an Association for the Advancement
of Education in Industry and Commerce (AEIC) (Perry 1976: 46).
Against the backdrop of these developments, one of the most promising
and potentially far-reaching initiatives came from the head of the EEF,
Allan Smith, who proposed a “bold national strategy aimed at reaching
a durable accommodation with official trade unions leaders” that, among
other things, would give unions a role in regulating apprenticeship in ex-
change for greater managerial latitude on craft-control issues (quote from
Zeitlin 1990: 415; on the aspects relating to skills specifically, see Zeitlin
1996: 27–9; Zeitlin 2001). Smith told a conference of engineering unions
in 1919, “We admit now, or propose to agree, that all questions practically
regarding apprentices should be discussed with you” (quoted in Zeitlin
1996: 28).
Smith recognized that a national-level deal was crucial to the success of
the project, since divergent rules across regions (based on uneven union
influence) was a continuing source of friction in strong interregional prod-
uct market competition. The idea – similar in some ways to the Terms
of Settlement of 1897 – was to draw the national union into a system in
which the union leadership would help to enforce greater uniformity. This
would involve reining in local activists where necessary. Thus, the offer on
the table called for negotiations with the ASE on issues relating to training
(including also the proportion of apprentices to journeymen) at the national
(specifically not the district) level. In other words, the EEF was prepared to
endorse trade union representation and participation in the regulation of
apprenticeship as part of a broad agreement to cover a range of issues includ-
ing wages and working hours and in conjunction with an overall reduction
of craft restrictions. In a report issued in 1918 the employers’ organiza-
tion proposed that all apprentices “should henceforth serve under written
agreements, whose observance might be secured through cooperation with
unions, while a national scheme should be adopted for supplementing work-
shop training with technical education” (Zeitlin 1996: 27–8).
In short, in Britain as in Germany, wartime skilled labor shortages height-
ened concerns about training, resulting in both cases in new pressures for
reform. In Germany, DATSCH’s efforts to secure legislation for a new
regulatory framework for training in industry did not bear fruit before or
even after World War I. Although the legislative reform process stalled in
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45 For the reasons elaborated above, which included the growth of cross-testing and certi-
fication for industrial firms, wage compression, and the increasing power of the VDMA
which provided a key site for increased coordination among German metalworking firms
on training.
46 Jonathan Zeitlin (Zeitlin 1996; Zeitlin 2001) provides an interpretation slightly different
from the one advanced here. He sees the failure of the initiatives of this period, and also
subsequent reform efforts in the 1940s and 1960s (discussed briefly below) as much more
“contingent” in the sense that the institutional reforms proposed at these junctures might
well have taken root had it not been for complicating exogenous events and conditions.
My sense is that the differences are in part a matter of emphasis, with my analysis placing
more weight on structural conditions and institutional starting points (for example, craft
unionism).
47 And see Chapter 4 for the example of the stove foundry industry in the United States.
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the most serious EEF proposals for a national-level settlement with labor
came at a time when central union control over local shop stewards was at
a low point.
Thus, despite the overtures by EEF leaders and even encouraging re-
sponse from the union leadership, the reform initiatives of the war years did
not bring the broad agreement that Smith sought. Instead, rank-and-file
militancy in 1919–1921 set the scene for yet another dramatic confronta-
tion between unions and employers over control issues. Employers seized
on the economic downturn of 1922 to impose significant cuts in wages
and to reassert managerial control over shop floor issues. Once again, the
organizational capacities that employers had developed were deployed to
defend the autonomy of individual firms (McKinlay and Zeitlin 1989: 42),
as the EEF rallied its members again to defeat the Amalgamated Engineer-
ing Union (AEU)48 in a major lockout. In the aftermath, employers moved
aggressively to slash skilled worker wages and to reassert their rights to
deploy workers as they saw fit, to introduce piece rate systems of payment,
and to manipulate working hours to cover production needs.
The AEU suffered huge membership losses both before and especially
after the defeat. This was a “rout” from which it took the union over a
decade to recover (Tolliday 1992: 46). As McKinlay and Zeitlin put it, in
the aftermath of this historic conflict, the AEU “was all but impotent at
the national, regional and workshop levels” (McKinlay and Zeitlin 1989:
42). The union’s defeat left employers more or less free to organize work
and apprentice training as they saw fit. What they did with this autonomy,
as before, worked overwhelmingly to the detriment of training in Britain.
Over the course of the 1920s and 1930s, apprenticeship by and large de-
teriorated, as apprentices were put on routine repetitive work and used
as a buffer, being laid off in downturns (Zeitlin 1996: 5, 34–6, 49; Zeitlin
1991:72). As one Leicestershire engineering employer reported, “We ob-
tain boys direct from the elementary school as near 14 years as possible.
In these days of repetition engineering, we have not, broadly speaking,
experienced any great benefit by taking boys at a later age, say 16, from a
secondary school” (Ministry of Labour 1928a: 89). McKinlay notes that the
response of engineering employers to the recession of 1929 was to engage
in the widespread replacement of time-served workers with apprentices, so
48 In 1920 the ASE merged with several other smaller craft societies to form the AEU, or
Amalgamated Engineering Union.
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less from an explicit union policy of wage compression than from the deci-
mation and continuing weakness of the AEU combined with the increasing
leverage (also later increasing militancy) of semi-skilled workers (Mosher
2001).
In short, whereas wage bargaining in Germany produced outcomes that
provided employers with incentives to increase training and hire more
skilled workers (at artificially reduced rates), British employers spent the
period after 1922 engaged in very different strategies – in the older seg-
ments of the industry seeking “cost reductions through the multiplication
of apprentices and the downgrading of skilled workers rather than through
rationalization and reequipment” and in the newer sectors, through “the
manipulation of payment systems . . . to drive production processes that re-
mained flexible and labor intensive” (Zeitlin 1990: 417–18). The resulting
wage distortions, as Zeitlin has pointed out, meant that in many cases, semi-
skilled workers wound up making more money than skilled time workers
(Zeitlin 1996: 48).
These effects had important implications for the incentives facing youth
to acquire training. The combination of wage distortions, the declining
quality of training, and continuing very long training times, was deadly
for apprenticeship in this period (Zeitlin 1996: 5, 39–40).51 There were no
obvious and compelling reasons for youths to subject themselves to long
training periods when the payoff was so low and the actual skills they ac-
quired so uncertain. Although many firms were indifferent to the problems
this caused, engineering firms concerned about the supply of skilled labor
complained that low wages were drawing youth off into unskilled, dead
end jobs, and in so doing “diverted suitable recruits from the engineering
industry” (Ministry of Labour 1928b: 15).52
51 In 1925–26, 47.7% of engineering apprentices finished in five years, but for 26.1% training
dragged on for seven years; only 1.6% of all trainees served four years or less (Ministry
of Labour 1928b: 19). In addition, 57% of boy apprentices (across all industries) were still
required to serve an additional period of improvership (most commonly, twelve months).
In the engineering and allied industries the number of apprentices serving additional im-
proverships was even higher (90 and 62%, respectively) (Ministry of Labour 1928a: 85;
Ministry of Labour 1928b: 6, 34). Moreover, training times subsequently increased for
many apprentices because of the widespread use of part-time work during the Depression
(Zeitlin 1996: 53).
52 Conversely, relatively higher wages for unskilled work added to the costs of training, as
apprentice wages were driven up in certain regions by competition with industries employ-
ing youth in unskilled positions. Such was the case, for example, in the textile districts in
Britain (Ministry of Labour 1928b: 23).
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53 Zeitlin notes that the urgency of reform was especially intense in the Northeast where
employers confronted severe labor shortages. In 1916 a group of engineers and employers in
this region established a “Committee on the Education of Apprentices” to discuss reforms.
The committee’s proposals called for major reforms, including the establishment by local
educational authorities of Junior Day Technical schools that could offer pre-apprentice
programs for school-leaving 14-year-olds, legislation that would compel employers to pay
for two to three and a half days of attendance in technical classes per week for youths up
to the age of 18, and provisions that would allow the most promising youths to become
part-time students at local technical colleges. At the height of the war, and in the context of
severe labor shortages, all the main engineering and shipbuilding employers in the region
approved the report (Zeitlin 1996: 23–5).
54 For this exact reason, the recommendation of the committee of inquiry that had first made
proposals in this area specifically counseled against leaving these matters to the localities
(Zeitlin 1996: 21).
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and acquire manipulative skill as best they can from their associating with
and assisting the workmen engaged in these trades” (Commerce 1930: 10–
11). As contemporaries emphasized, “considerable responsibility for the
proper teaching of the apprentice rested upon the skilled worker. Much de-
pended upon his capacity and willingness to impart instruction” (Ministry
of Labour 1928b: 39). This arrangement, never ideal, became even more
problematic in the 1920s with the increased use of piece rates for skilled
journeymen (Ministry of Labour 1928b: 37), since any effort spent in train-
ing could easily compromise the worker’s own wage (Commerce 1930:
18, 23).55
British apprenticeship also remained highly stratified, with distinctions
drawn among different “grades” of apprenticeship, depending, among other
things, on the prior experience and completed course work a trainee brought
with him (Ministry of Labour 1928b: 41, 49–50). Although “trade” ap-
prentices were usually confined to one trade and generally to one depart-
ment, premium apprentices received more all-round training (Commerce
1930: 14–15).56 The report of the Association for Education in Industry and
Commerce referred to premium apprenticeship as the “method by which
the privileged few are allowed wide facilities to obtain training and experi-
ence” (Commerce 1930: 14). As before, top training companies still focused
heavily on encouraging apprentices to attend classes, paying the class fees,
allowing time off to enroll in evening or part time day classes (21% of engi-
neering firms surveyed), facilitating attendance at day classes (though only
about 6% of engineering firms with apprentices engaged in this practice),
and offering bonuses or prizes for good performance (Ministry of Labour
1928a: 108–9).
Whereas in Germany, firms in the interwar years increasingly coordi-
nated their training through strong trade associations such as the VDMA,
British employers still worked, if at all, mostly through the EEF and then
coordinated largely on issues such as the length of improverships and on the
wages they paid to improvers (Ministry of Labour 1928b: 35, 36). In some
regions, the local employers’ association recommended wages for appren-
tices, in some cases setting out maxima and minima (Ministry of Labour
1928b: 43). The content of training, however, was largely unregulated and
55 Even where firms placed responsibility for apprentices with foremen, there were problems
since foremen were not, typically, chosen for their pedagogic skills, and often were most
concerned simply to get the product out (Commerce 1930: 23).
56 Although, as before, there was some possibility for trade apprentices who demonstrated
special promise or aptitude to be upgraded.
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uncoordinated. The general trend throughout the 1920s was toward a de-
terioration in both the quality and quantity of training, creating a situation
that rendered the efforts of the more progressive firms more vulnerable
than ever to poaching and price competition.
There may be no better evidence of the deterioration of apprentice-
ship in the 1920s and 1930s in British engineering than the uprising of
the apprentices themselves in 1937. They demanded not just higher wages
but also improvement in the conditions and quality of their training (see
especially, McKinlay 1986). The upheaval started in engineering firms on
the Clyde, where trainees presented their employers with an “Apprentice
Charter” that laid out several demands. Among these, the apprentices de-
manded paid day release for attendance at technical education classes, so
they could get theoretical grounding to go along with their practical work-
shop experience. “For the boys, trade training was a demand of paramount
importance. Not only did apprentices suffer the indignity of being confined
to repetitive tasks, but they were intensely aware that circumscribed work-
shop experience limited their future employment prospects” (McKinlay
1986: 14). The apprentices also sought a “reasonable ratio of apprentices
to journeymen,” both as a way of improving training and to regulate the
industry’s skilled labor supply (Zeitlin 1996: 53).
The apprentice strike spread to other parts of England, suggesting that
these demands resonated widely. Employers took heed of the strike and
immediately sought to bring it under the control of organized labor by
granting apprentices union representation. Their speedy reaction reveals
the extent to which many employers had come to rely on the labor of
apprentices in their shops (McKinlay 1986). From the perspective of the
propositions laid out in Chapter 1, however, we can see why the outcome
was not altogether supportive of training in Britain. Union representation
resulted in an increase in apprentices’ real wages, which increased the costs
of training for employers (Gospel and Okayama 1991: 24). This move might
reduce employers’ propensity to exploit apprentices as a source of cheap
labor, but it also reduced their incentive to take apprentices in the first
place. In addition, as these changes were not accompanied by any agreement
providing for enhanced monitoring of the content or quality of training,
there still existed considerable disincentives for youth to commit themselves
to long training contracts (Zeitlin 1996: 39–40).
The failure to agree on a system to monitor and enforce apprentice
contracts left British apprenticeship still subject to the credible commit-
ment and coordination problems cited in Chapter 1. Apprenticeship would
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rebound again in the 1940s and 1950s in the context of skilled labor short-
ages and government encouragement and pressure, but in the absence of
any enduring settlement – anchored in an alliance between those segments
of labor and capital that shared an interest in a strong and durable train-
ing system but institutionalized on a broader basis – these later successes
were vulnerable to roll-back under less auspicious political and market
circumstances.
57 On these and subsequent developments, see especially King (1997), on which I draw here.
58 Based on figures provided to me by James Mosher.
59 Subsequent shifts in policy, inaugurated under Thatcher but ultimately embraced in a
different form by New Labour, have brought a retreat from tripartism and state direction
in training and a move toward more market-based solutions (King and Wickham-Jones
1997). These moves have the effect – in Becker’s (1993) terms – of shifting the costs of
training onto youth, while also increasing the incentives for them to acquire at least certain
types of skills.
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This chapter extends the analysis and the line of argumentation devel-
oped for Germany and Britain to two further cases, Japan and the United
States. Japan provides an important counterpoint to Germany, for there,
too, firm-based training rests on institutional arrangements that ameliorate
costly competition among firms and mitigate the collective action prob-
lems typically associated with private-sector training. Both German and
Japanese employers overcame their collective action problems in the area
of training, but they did so in radically different ways: in Germany through
the construction of a national system that generates a plentiful supply of
workers with portable skills, and in Japan, through plant-based training in
the context of stronger internal labor markets. Applying the terms intro-
duced in Chapter 1, we note a broad difference between skill formation
regimes based on “collectivism” in the German case and “segmentalism”
or “autarky” in the Japanese case.
The other case considered in this chapter, the United States, provides a
useful counterpoint to that of the British. In both countries, apprenticeship
was a source of conflict between employers and craft unions, and there-
fore, strongly contested across the class divide. As in Britain, so too in the
United States only in rare cases (the construction industry is an example)
could an accommodation be reached that stabilized coordination across
firms and between organized labor and employers in the area of apprentice
training. The U.S. case also shares some similarities with Japan, however.
Employers in both countries confronted intense skill shortages in the early
industrial period and often relied on a system of subcontracting (to indepen-
dent craftsmen) to handle the recruitment and training of skilled workers.
Where these cases diverge is in the political dynamics and the coalitions
that took shape, especially in the first decades of the twentieth century. In
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the United States, these autonomous skilled workmen were coopted into
management hierarchies in large firms, and provided a key support for em-
ployers who were intent on defeating craft unions. Together they presided
over the rationalization of production designed to reduce dependence on
skills. In Japan, by contrast, independent craftsmen (oyakata) maintained a
higher degree of independence and mobility, setting the scene for a different
kind of alliance that brought management and emerging unions together
around the shared goal of limiting the independent power of the oyakata.
In the process, large Japanese firms pioneered many policies now associ-
ated with strong firm-based training linked to progression within elaborate
internal labor markets.
The difference is that in Germany, skilled workers’ exit options are what
give them power on the shop floor, whereas in Japan union influence is
based more on labor’s indispensable cooperation in production in the con-
text of enterprise unions’ “stakeholder” position in the firm (see Streeck
1996: 144–51 for an extended discussion).
This chapter begins by exploring the origins of the Japanese system of
strong in-plant training, against the backdrop of the German case as elab-
orated in Chapter 2. In Japan, as in Germany, a crucial first step involved
the suppression of early tendencies toward a liberal solution (freedom of
trade in Germany and labor mobility in Japan). In contrast to both Great
Britain and the United States, industrialization in Germany and Japan oc-
curred under authoritarian auspices, and in both cases state repression de-
layed the emergence of stable organizations for labor representation and
thwarted attempts by workers to organize around skill. In Japan, as in
Germany, traditional artisans played a key role in providing skills for emerg-
ing industry. Moreover, in both countries, contests between artisans and
large industrial enterprises over skill formation set in motion a competi-
tion that proved constructive rather than destructive to the preservation
of a shop floor regime premised on significant firm investment in worker
training.
Where the two cases diverge – with consequences for the institutional-
ization of two very different types of training regimes – is in the treatment by
the state of the artisanate as a corporate actor in the early industrial period.
Such differences affected the strategies of firms that depended heavily on
skills and powerfully shaped their relations with emerging unions. In Japan
the state confronted an artisanal sector that was both less organized than
in Germany and also lacked the progressive element found in Germany
in the southwestern states. Moreover, given the weakness of the Japanese
labor movement in the late nineteenth century, the political motives that
played a role in Germany for promoting artisans’ corporate organization
and independence were absent in Japan.
In contrast to Germany, where government policy promoted the orga-
nization and modernization of the handicraft sector, Japan’s developmental
state viewed the artisanate as an impediment to modernization, and govern-
ment policy actively undermined the artisanate as a unified corporate actor.
The state itself stepped into the skills void and took a much more direct
hand in promoting skill formation, importing foreign engineers and estab-
lishing training programs in state-owned enterprises. Private firms tapped
into the skills that public-sector companies generated, and both private
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and public companies dealt with the problem of skill formation by incor-
porating individual artisans (oyakata) into a system of direct employment
and company-based training. As in Germany, there were contests between
traditional artisans and industry over the content and character of appren-
ticeship training, but in Japan these were played out at the company (rather
than the national–political) level.
My analysis of developments in Japan ends in the 1930s, with only a
glance forward. This is not meant to imply that the Japanese system was fully
developed at that point – far from it. By this time, however, the divergence
between a more collectivist versus a more segmentalist approach to skills
that distinguishes the German from the Japanese system is quite evident. As
in the German case, subsequent developments would refine a system many
of whose main contours were already visible by the onset of World War II.
The Role of the State and the Fate of the Japanese Artisanate
In Germany, as we have seen, the legislation that became the cornerstone
of that country’s system of skill formation – the Handicraft Protection Law
of 1897 – was constructed around indigenous institutions and models. In
passing this law, the state embraced a policy that nurtured artisanal orga-
nizations as a political bulwark against the radical labor movement, at the
same time transforming them into a stable source of skills for emerging in-
dustry. In Japan, both the labor movement and the artisanal sector were less
organized in the early industrial period. The political motives that inspired
government policy in Germany were absent; the kind of strong and surging
social democratic labor movement that existed in Germany was not a factor
in Japan.
In Japan, state policy in the early industrial period was organized less
around preserving social stability than around promoting industrial de-
velopment. After the Meiji Restoration of 1868 the Japanese government
was convinced that destroying feudal institutions was necessary for Japan’s
industrial development. Eager to abolish all previous barriers to labor mo-
bility, the government embarked on a broad liberalization policy that un-
dermined the traditional privileges of the artisanal sector (Sumiya 1955:
33–6). In a relatively short period of time, the artisanate was confronted
with changes – revocation of their traditional privileges coupled with mas-
sive state-sponsored industrialization – that completely undermined their
corporate identity and organizations (Taira 1978: 188). Apprenticeship
training, traditionally the preserve of Japanese craft-masters, was similarly
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1 Although the government issued a decree to regulate apprenticeship in 1872, it simply de-
clared that only master craftsmen could take apprentices for a maximum seven-year term and
prohibited human traffic. In some traditional industries, such as brewing and construction,
the artisanal organizations still played an important role in skill formation, but they did not
have any legal privileges.
2 As Weiss has emphasized, the state was driven as much by military motives as by the economic
exigencies of late development. Japan, she reminds us, was more or less continually at war or
preparing for one from 1894 to at least 1912 (Weiss 1993: 332–3; also Taira 1978: 175–9).
By 1905, “more than two thirds of the work force employed in the nation’s engineering works
were located in the state sector” (Weiss 1993: 333, italics in original), and a good deal of
production was directly related to military concerns.
3 Taira notes that government firms in metalworking and engineering accounted for more
workers than private firms throughout this entire period. The balance began to shift some-
what in the 1880s as the private sector took off (in part though privatizations), but the
employment ratios did not reverse until World War I. By 1920, however, employment in
private enterprises in this sector reached three times the rate in the public sector (Taira 1978:
175–6, 187).
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4 It is not that the artisanate in Meiji Japan was completely unsophisticated, but more that
it had been much more insulated from international markets so that the leap to Western
metalworking and machine-making techniques was considerable (see Suzuki 1994). I thank
Jonathan Zeitlin for emphasizing this to me.
5 In the 1880s, many of these firms were privatized but the resulting huge enterprises (some
later to become the core of gigantic zaibatsu conglomerates such as Mitsubishi and Kawasaki)
continued to stand at the forefront of training, and also to occupy a privileged position in
the market with the government as a key and very reliable customer. The state sometimes
arranged transfers of skilled workers from state enterprises to the private companies on
whom they relied for military production (Levine and Kawada 1980: 154).
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Importing skills was not an end in itself, however, but a step toward
self-sufficiency. Thus, traditional Japanese artisans – now bereft of tradi-
tional corporate privileges – were incorporated into the state-sponsored
system as individuals and in the role of intermediaries. They were expected
to acquire skills from the foreign instructors and pass them on to other
Japanese workers (Gordon 1985: 18). Indigenous artisans were meant grad-
ually to take over the role played by the foreign craftsmen, to assist in de-
veloping a stock of indigenous skilled workers to run production indepen-
dently. This strategy was often quite successful, as the case of the Yokosuka
Shipyard shows (Yokosuka 1983: 6). Originally constructed in 1865 by the
Tokugawa Shogunate, the Yokosuka Shipyard employed 45 French engi-
neers and craftsmen in the late 1860s. Over the next 20 years the number
of foreign employees decreased to almost zero, as the skills and technology
were acquired by Japanese engineers and workers (Saegusa 1960: 61). The
core artisans and regular workers employed at the shipyard were recruited
mainly from the pool of traditional Japanese craftsmen.
Second, the government sector pioneered the establishment of factory-
based technical schools that included in-class instruction. These schools
were not intended to train ordinary workers; the graduates of the tech-
nical schools were meant to preside over on-the-job training of others
(minaraikō ). The graduates of the technical schools thus played a role
in training next-generation workers.6 For example, Yahata, a government
steel mill, initiated a state-of-the-art in-plant training program in 1898,
with the assistance of foreign, especially German, advisors. Nagasaki Ship-
yard, similarly, had a quite elaborate arrangement that included a voca-
tional school and two main training “tracks.” For young workers being
groomed for supervisory positions in the firm, training consisted of three
years of coursework, after which the trainee would be placed alongside a
skilled worker supervisor (oyakata) on the shop floor in an assistant supervi-
sory position, followed finally by four more years of class-based vocational
training. The other track, for “regular” skilled workers consisted of a com-
bination of on-the-job training and daily classroom instruction at the fac-
tory vocational school, for a total training period of five years (Taira 1978:
205–6).
6 Again, the Yokosuka Shipyard is a good example. The shipyard had two schools, one for
engineers and one for technicians. In 1883, the number of students admitted to these two
schools was 37 and about 50, respectively, as against a total of 1,505 employees in the factory
as a whole (Sumiya 1970: 17).
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Skill formation outside the public sector (and its private-sector spin-offs)
was organized along more traditional lines, and here local artisans played
an even more prominent role. In Japan’s small firm sector, as in Germany,
master craftsmen presided directly over skill formation, taking apprentices
in and working alongside them in their workshops. In Japan, such training
was often haphazard and exploitative (Taira 1978: 188–9). However, larger
factories often integrated traditional artisans into a more effective system
for apprentice training through “continuous skill” teaching, adapting tra-
ditional skills to new tasks (cf. Sawai 1996: 302; Suzuki 1992). This form
of in-plant training increased dramatically at the turn of the century with
the expansion of the metalworking sector and the growing role of large
private firms in it. In practice it resembled traditional workshop training
where young apprentices picked up their skills by working alongside skilled
artisans (Taira 1970: 109–10; Taira 1978: 189).
Thus, in spite of the destruction of their corporate organizations, tra-
ditional Japanese artisans continued to occupy an important role in skill
formation in the early industrial period. In the metalworking industries,
as in other “modern” sectors, traditional artisans were absorbed into large
companies and served as intermediaries, acquiring new skills either through
working with foreign craftsmen or in technical schools and then passing
these skills on to younger workers on the job. In the growing and increas-
ingly important private sector, traditional craftsmen were also employed
and put in charge of training through an adaptation of traditional skills to
new problems and technologies.
Either way, in both the private and public sectors, training in Japanese
factories was based on the traditional oyakata-kokata (master-apprentice)
relationship, and skilled craft masters in Japan (oyakata) came to play an
important role and to exert wide discretion on the shop floor (Gordon
1985: 38–45; Sumiya 1970: 100). The power of the Japanese oyakata de-
rived partly from the structure of the market for skilled metalworkers in
Meiji Japan, which was organized around social and economic ties. Labor
recruitment by firms, as well as the movement of workers from job to job,
was facilitated by the “referencing networks” that developed around well-
known oyakata (Taira 1978: 190). By relying on master craftsmen as suppliers
of skilled labor (through both recruitment and apprentice training), firms
could minimize the costs associated with finding appropriate skills and over-
come the problem of imperfect information (for example, about a worker’s
skill level) in the absence of any kind of formal certification or standard.
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7 The nature of the subcontracting relationship varied. In some cases the workers an oyakata
brought in were not directly employed by the firm at all. But often even craftsmen who
belonged to an oyakata had formal employment relations with the factory. Therefore, when
oyakata could not complete the subcontracted work within the budget assigned, individual
workers could demand their normal wages from the factory management (Agriculture and
Commerce 1903, Vol. 3: 271). In this sense, the employment relationship was not so indirect.
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the market in particular trades (see the discussion in Chapter 3). State
policy allowed, and in some ways even indirectly encouraged, the forging of
links among workers in the same trade but different places of employment.
The political context was more restrictive in Japan. Unlike their British
counterparts, Japanese artisans were not permitted to form inter-regional
links between guilds or journeymen’s associations during the Tokugawa
Shogunate which preceded the Meiji Restoration (Gordon 1985: 22–5).
When the economy was liberalized, skilled artisans in Japan were much
more free floating, though they were also able to take advantage of extreme
skilled labor shortages as free agents (and employers of others). The huge
public or private firms that dominated the metalworking and engineering
industry in the early industrial period depended on oyakata and their workers
for the skills they commanded. Beyond this, the overall lack of managerial
expertise (especially in the public sector) meant that large employers also
depended on oyakata as “the principal method of work-force management
in Japanese factories before the First World War” (Taira 1978: 189).
Traditional craftsmen in Japan were thus absorbed, but mostly as in-
dividual entrepreneurs, into emerging industry and there often occupied
powerful quasi-supervisory positions. As Taira points out (Taira 1978: 187–
94), given the early – and growing – bifurcation of the metalworking and
engineering industry into a dynamic (mostly state-owned) large firm sec-
tor, alongside a less dynamic sector composed of small workshops, the place
to make one’s career was in the former, because oyakata who entered the
large-firm sector enjoyed tremendous autonomy, power, and status.8 The
enormous and sprawling factories in which oyakata operated were typically
run on a very decentralized basis, and workers in this period perceived
themselves to be members of a particular oyakata-kokata group rather than
employees of the company in which the group worked. “Unlike the latter-
day workers of Japan, a Meiji craftsman would rarely name the factory
as his employer, nor would he derive any particular pride from mention-
ing its name. His pride was in his trade and in belonging to the circle
of a respectable oyakata. . . . The coveted goal for any worker was to es-
tablish himself as an oyakata with his own workshop and kokata” (Taira
1978: 190).
Skill-based unions did not make much headway in Japan for a variety
of reasons. One is the legacy of state policy toward the guilds under the
8 Taira notes that in some cases, oyakata commanded very large retinues, of “tens or hundreds”
of subordinates that they brought with them (Taira 1978: 193).
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his retinue from one work site to another in response to the highest bidder,”
a factor that contributed to extremely high levels of turnover before World
War I (Levine and Kawada 1980: 113). Moreover, even if the oyakata stayed
put, there was nothing binding about his relationship with the craftsmen
under him. Since the oyakata masters played a key regulatory role in the
labor market – controlling well-paid jobs and assigning them to his group
members – there were some incentives for craftsmen to stay with the oyakata.
But there were no formal controls, and an oyakata’s workers could and did
leave the factory at their own will (Agriculture and Commerce 1903, Vol. 2:
10). The oyakata were themselves in some cases important intermediaries,
helping craftsmen who were made redundant in one factory to find jobs
elsewhere (Yamamoto 1994: 167–8).
In addition, since apprenticeship training was unregulated, there was also
nothing to discourage labor mobility even among trainees. The system of
training at this time was plant-based, but because it was embedded in highly
fluid subcontracting relations, the skills conveyed were highly portable.9
Moreover, unlike the case in Germany, there were no particular incentives
for Japanese apprentices to stay until the end of their formal training period
if opportunities arose elsewhere (Labor 1961: 22). Thus, in the metal trades
especially, “many apprentices cut short their terms of apprenticeship and
took off into the world as independent journeymen” (Taira 1970: 109).
A certain amount of mobility was seen as completely consistent with the
progress of an apprentice’s training. Changing jobs exposed apprentices
to new techniques and technologies, so some mobility was seen as useful
in helping workers to develop their skills by experiencing various types of
work (Sumiya 1970: 162–7).
This type of mobility among skilled workers had always been a factor
in Japan, certainly in the public sector where it was a long-standing issue.
Public sector enterprises counted on a certain degree of attrition and could
maintain high quality and expensive training programs because they were
uniquely positioned to pass the costs of training along to the consumer (the
military). But because they valued the key skilled workers they had gone to
9 But with one qualification. Although mobility was a signal of the market power of skilled
workers in this period, the lack of “independent standards” for documenting one’s skill put
some limits on what they could do, since firms could not know what they were getting. One
company, Uraga, used a one-week test (employing the worker at a flat rate of 1 yen per day)
to determine the worker’s wage. If a worker felt that he was being inadequately remunerated,
that his real skills merited higher pay, he had not much recourse but to quit again (Gordon
1985: 96–7).
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10 At this time, the Yokosuka Shipyard employed 113 regular workers ( jōyatoi), 397 helpers,
and 54 common laborers (Hazama 1964: 403; Taira 1978: 176).
11 The number of workers in military arsenals rose from about twenty-five thousand in 1899
to just over seventy-five thousand by 1912. Employment in private metal factories rose
from just under twenty-one thousand to almost seventy thousand in the same period. See
Hazama (1964: 436, 452). On the need for more differentiated and specialized skills, see
also Yamamoto (1994: 188), Inoko (1996).
12 In 1902, the median length of employment was less than one year in private machine
companies in Aichi Prefecture (Odaka 1990: 320).
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16 On the development of business and trade associations in Japan in the pre-war period, see
the essays by Miyamoto, Kikkawa, and Fujita in Yamazaki and Miyamoto (1988). Prior to
World War I, a number of cartels formed in various light industries; only one formed in
the iron, steel, and machinery industries in that period (Kikkawa 1988: 65; tables on 62–3).
Kikkawa refers to cartels in the silk, paper, and cotton industries that apparently sought to
deal with labor shortages. He mentions efforts in those industries to prevent poaching, but
there is no mention of any joint endeavors in the area of skill formation (Kikkawa 1988:
65–6).
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17 After the company introduced the regular worker system, the mobility rate (calculated by
dividing the number of hired and fired workers in a given year by the total number of
workers at the end of that year) dropped substantially, from an average (between 1898 and
1909) of 115% to an average (between 1910 and 1913) of 57%.
18 My account is based on Levine and Kawada (1980: 158–68).
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inspection report from 1919 recorded separation rates for the Japanese
machine industry of 75%; a national survey conducted around the same
time found that only 11% of the country’s three hundred thousand machine
industry workers (12% of all industrial workers) had over five years experi-
ence with the same employer (Gordon 1985: 87, 89). These conditions pro-
moted company policies designed to stabilize internal labor markets, which
strongly foreshadowed practices that would become even more widespread
later. “The granting of periodic raises to some of those who remained with
a company was one critical practice which became fairly common by the
end of World War I” (Gordon 1985: 97), as was the use of promotions
(to supervisory or foreman positions) partly on the basis of seniority, plus
bonuses and allowances associated with seniority – all used selectively and
strategically by management to keep (particular) skilled workers in place
(Gordon 1985: 98–101). Wage rates and benefits in the interwar period
also came to be associated with length of service although “promotion de-
pended upon successfully passing periodical examinations based on training
provided” (Levine and Kawada 1980: 174).
19 The interwar period also saw the founding (in 1919) of an organization, the Kyōchōkai,
(Harmonization Society) which consisted of businessmen, members of the Diet, public
interest representatives, and representatives of government, and was designed to promote
labor–management cooperation. The organization for a time provided job placement ser-
vices, conducted research, and acted as a policy advocacy organization. Main strands of
activity were to advise employers, promote the introduction of various company-based
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welfare measures, and lobby the government for social policy legislation. The organization
also published a report on the state of worker welfare systems in various companies, which
may have facilitated a degree of cooperation through information sharing among the seg-
mentalists in this period. Unions rejected the organization as an attempt to co-opt workers
but it survived until 1946 when the occupying forces dissolved it because of its role in the
war. I am grateful to Ikuo Kume for information on this organization, based on the book,
The Thirty Years of Kyōchōkai.
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power of the oyakata bosses. As described above, the oyakata craftsmen were
in charge of managing as well as training workers. Previous, longstanding
skill shortages had enhanced their power within the plant, but these skills
were becoming outdated as new (imported, advanced) technology was in-
troduced in factory production. Meanwhile, and parallel to this, young
skilled workers who had graduated from company training schools began
playing an increasingly important role on the shop floor, posing a threat
to the traditional oyakata-based shop floor regime. In some cases, union
activists organized and mobilized young skilled and semi-skilled workers
against the oyakata regime.
Important for the present argument is the fact that, in such conflicts,
management frequently sided with the union. In the large firms in the metal
industry the demands of young unionists to curb oyakata power dovetailed
with the efforts of managers to take direct control of personnel policy. The
oyakata lost their power, and management began exerting control directly
(Sumiya 1970, Vol. 2: 56). In these labor conflicts, management often made
concessions to the union in order to incorporate younger skilled workers
into the factory regime (Gordon 1985: 421). Many union demands – such as
for the introduction of an annual bonus and a retirement bonus system for
regular workers – had the effect of further institutionalizing internal labor
markets (Gordon 1985, 163–206). Already in the late 1910s a number of
firms had confronted and met such demands. These included Shibaura
Manufacturing (1916), Nagasaki Shipyard (1917), and Nippon Steel
Hiroshima Factory (1919) (Odaka 1995: 153). In addition, in 1919, workers
in the Yahata Steel Mill (the largest mill at the time) went on strike demand-
ing not just improvement of working conditions but also equal treatment
of regular blue-collar workers and white-collar officials. The young skilled
workers also demanded that career paths for managerial positions should
be open to them.20 These demands were met after a long labor conflict
(Sumiya 1970, Vol. 2: 86), thus promoting long-term employment and in-
ternal labor markets.
In the interwar period, Japanese unions continued to push for stable wage
increases based on length of employment (Gordon 1985: Chapter 5), and
since management was still concerned about skills, alliances were forged
20 Such demands make a great deal of sense in the Japanese context where the absence of any
legal right to organize and bargain collectively – until 1945 (Taira 1989: 647) – meant that
most activism would be localized, and where firm policies organized around efforts to hold
on to particularly treasured employees produced a high degree of stratification within a
given workforce (Taira 1989: 628).
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within the company before class conflict appears” (Ikeda 1982: 9). In the
1920s a number of factory committees were indeed established to facilitate
labor-management communication, many of them incorporating manage-
ment practices begun in the large companies in response to labor conflicts.
Taira notes that although collective bargaining and unionization were min-
imal in Japan in this period, employer-initiated works councils – designed
to forestall unionization – were quite widespread (Taira 1970: 144–8).21
Policies pursued by the Japanese government of the 1930s and 1940s
further encouraged segmentalism and company-based training in the con-
text of strong internal labor markets.22 In response to a dramatic four-fold
increase in strike activity in 1937 (measured in the number of striking work-
ers), the government instituted the so-called Industrial Patriotic Council
(Sangyō Hōkokukai; IPC) (Okazaki 1993). The IPC was designed to im-
prove communication and avoid conflict between workers and employers,
as well as to provide workers with company welfare privileges as part of a
war mobilization program (Saguchi 1991: 168).
The war years were very important for solidifying previously emerging
patterns (Sakurabayashi 1985). Although the IPC did not achieve its for-
mal purpose (Garon 1988: Chapter 6; see also Gordon 1985: 299–326),
it did promote a “managerial revolution” and encouraged deep changes
in Japanese corporate governance (Okazaki 1993). Taira argues that this
movement (Sanpō for short) laid the basis for enterprise unions after the
war (Taira 1989). And, although a full-fledged transformation of Japanese
corporate governance structure, in which employees’ interests were priori-
tized over those of shareholders, did not occur until after the labor offensive
in the post-World War II period (Kume 1998), we can find the roots of such
a transformation in this effort (Noguchi 1995).
In addition, the exigencies of war production brought a significant ex-
pansion of private-sector training, as in Germany under National Socialism,
directly promoted and indeed mandated by the state. In March 1939, two
significant pieces of legislation came into effect, requiring many employers
to establish worker-training programs (Gordon 1985: 265). Subsequent leg-
islation (between 1939 and 1942) imposed increasingly strict government
21 Unionization was especially low in large private-sector enterprises; in 1936 there were only
16 collective agreements with firms employing over five hundred workers (Taira 1970, 147).
22 By contrast, the attempt by the military government to introduce a nationwide system of
skill formation (through the so-called “youth schools”) failed, largely because the two goals
that animated the initiative – skill formation and infantry training – were frequently in
conflict and the latter very often overrode the former (Sumiya 1970, Vol. 2: 272).
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that these skills are entirely non-transferable (in Becker’s strict sense), but
it does mean that skill acquisition and development are organized around
different principles and goals with respect to skill “portability.”
The difference becomes clear in the skill accreditation and certification
system that emerged in Japan in the postwar period.23 A 1958 Vocational
Training Law established a system for testing and certifying skills under
the auspices of the Ministry of Labor. The system is administered with
the assistance of the National Vocational Skills Development Association,
which recruits representatives of industry and vocational training establish-
ments to set standards, and whose prefecture branches administer the tests
themselves. Through this system public and private training institutions are
accredited but so too are private sector (company-based) training schemes.
The skills tested are narrow but they are not necessarily company specific,
and certification makes them more portable by rendering them more trans-
parent to other firms. Unlike the German system, however, the skills that
are certified in Japan are “discrete and miscellaneous” and can be mixed
and matched.24 The certification and accreditation system in Japan thus
fits and reflects the different (segmentalist) logic of the Japanese training
regime (Sako 1995: 6).
Companies may seek accreditation for their own training schemes for a
variety of reasons. For many, accreditation helps in recruiting top young
workers, by establishing or maintaining a company’s reputation as a good
firm and a good employer, one that will offer ongoing training and oppor-
tunities for advancement (Sako 1995: 25). In many firms a more formalized
procedure for worker testing has been folded into the traditional inter-
nal promotion schemes. For example, some firms require workers to earn
certificates as a prerequisite for advancement or higher pay, thus provid-
ing a crucial link between seniority wages and ongoing skill acquisition –
necessary to ensure increasing worker productivity across the worker’s en-
tire career. Certification also helps organize and facilitate relations between
“core” firms and their various “peripheral” partners, for example providing
a mechanism for core firms to assess the capabilities of their various dealer-
ships. In other instances, the system provides a means for large firms to
assess the performance of their suppliers or to coordinate production with
them. Small supplier firms are sometimes required to have workers certified
23 The following account is based on Sako (1995), Dore and Sako (1989), and Crouch,
Finegold, and Sako (1999).
24 For example, one major car manufacturer had, as of 1995, 219 internal skill tests.
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with individual oyakata to recruit and train skilled workers. This strategy
solved some problems but it created others, as independent and mobile
oyakata could use competition among industrial firms over scarce skilled
labor to enhance their own power within individual companies. After re-
peated (failed) attempts on the part of industry to find a solution through
“collective self control,” private firms followed the lead of public-sector
firms who had internalized skill formation, setting Japanese firms on a very
different trajectory favoring plant-based training.25 In Germany, where the
artisanate was well organized, it could not be absorbed into and subordi-
nated to industry in the same way. Tensions between the artisanate and
industry were played out at the national–political rather than the plant
level.
It is important to note here that the actual skills possessed by workers
in Japan and Germany after the turn of the century were in fact not so
different. In Japan, training was plant-based and internal to large firms, but
high levels of labor mobility suggest that the skills themselves were very
portable. Conversely, in Germany, the existence of skill certificates should
not imply that skills were particularly standardized – that development came
only later, in the machine and metalworking industries in the 1920s and in
other industries in the 1930s and 1940s under the National Socialists.
Third, and finally, the consolidation of segmentalist and solidaristic
strategies has to be understood in terms of the way in which these previ-
ous developments mediated industry’s relationship with the emerging labor
unions. In both cases, alignments and realignments among the artisanate,
industry, and unions in the 1920s appear to be crucial. In both countries,
economic trends in the early 1920s called the existing system into question,
and critical realignments (in Japan between the managers of large industrial
firms and younger skilled workers at the plant level; in Germany between
some segments of industry and labor unions at the industry level) reinforced
previous trajectories.
In Japan, segmentalist strategies before World War I were a response to
intense skilled labor shortages, and so the slack labor markets of the 1920s
might have undermined the strong internal labor markets that had been
25 In addition, in Germany, the ongoing modernization of “traditional” skills was built into
the market-conforming character of the 1897 law, which, as pointed out above, facilitated
Handwerk’s adaptation to the market (including technological change). This was quite
different from Japan, where, if traditional skills were upgraded at all, it was in the internal
labor markets of the industrial sector.
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developing. What prevented this was the growing complexity of firms’ skill
needs combined with the increasing threat of trade union influence at the
plant level, which produced a critical realignment (management with unions
or young company-trained workers against the oyakata) that consolidated
and deepened segmentalism. In Germany, where skills were more plentiful
before World War I, the crisis of the 1920s was different and stemmed
from Handwerk’s own economic crisis, which severely tested its capacity
for “collective self-regulation” and sparked concerns about impending skill
shortages. Newly incorporated labor unions emerged as potential allies for
industry against the Handwerk monopoly and in support of a solidaristic
system of skill formation for industry. In both cases, in other words, there
was a critical realignment that brought segments of industry into alliance
with labor and against the artisanate, with the difference that in Japan this
occurred at the plant level and in Germany at the industry level.
The effect of World War II in both cases was to accelerate developments
along these divergent paths. In Japan, as Weiss summarizes, “Before the
war, seniority wages, company allowances, and company training programs
linked to long-term career structures were practiced in an opportunistic,
exclusive, and capricious manner by a small number of core companies.
The effect of the war on government policy was to deepen and systematize
these tendencies and to extend them to industry as a whole” (Weiss 1993:
346). In Germany, (see Chapter 5) the National Socialist regime during
World War II presided over a massive expansion of training and the increas-
ing standardization of apprenticeship through the extension of the collec-
tivist framework that had been evolving in Germany since the nineteenth
century.
In neither Germany nor Japan was labor the driving force toward more
collectivist versus more segmentalist skill development, but unions formu-
lated their goals within the (different) logics of the two systems, and in so
doing helped to push developments further along these distinctive tracks. In
Japan, for example, unions defined their goals within the context of strong
internal labor markets in ways that helped to consolidate segmentalism and
drive skill formation down an increasingly organization-specific path. In
Germany, the fact that unions “grew up” in a context in which skill forma-
tion was already regulated (by Handwerk) discouraged craft-based control
strategies and made unions potential allies of industry in the latter’s strug-
gles for separate certification, though labor’s relative weakness (especially in
Germany’s large-firm sector) contributed to the problems of consolidating
solidarism in the Weimar years.
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26 Apprenticeship was also used as a disciplinary device for punishment of debt and penalties
for idleness (Douglas 1921: 42–3). As Douglas points out, apprentices were thus dealt with
more or less as the master’s property, so much so that “apprentices were often listed among
the assets of bankrupts and were either taken personally by the creditors as payment for
debt or sold to satisfy the obligation. Upon the death of the master, the apprentice was often
sold with the rest of the estate by the heirs” (Douglas 1921: 48). Motley points out that
employers in colonial America had such absolute control over their trainees that some of
the laws governing servants and slaves were extended to cover apprentices as well (Motley
1907: 15). As in Britain, an apprentice’s term of service, linked to the age at which he started,
continued until he reached the age of 21 (for boys; 16 for girls) (Motley 1907: 13).
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1986: 4–5; Hansen 1997: 84–5; Motley 1907: 28). As Hansen has sum-
marized: “There were no minimum levels of competence required to
practice a craft, no regulation of apprenticeship. Nor were there formal
associations of craft brothers to present joint appeals to municipal and state
officials, to build and sustain collective identity and interests, or to enforce
production standards, labor practices, price floors and the like. What little
collective action American mechanics engaged in was voluntary, ad hoc,
and ineffective” (Hansen 1997: 95).
Craft identities that in Germany were nurtured by handicraft associa-
tions or in Britain by craft unions were, by contrast, difficult to build and
maintain in colonial America. Social structures were a great deal more fluid,
as vast land resources pulled New Englanders westward and as a very large
number of craftsmen worked simultaneously as independent farmers. These
farmer artisans – many living in remote areas – of necessity operated with
a high degree of self-reliance. Rather than specializing in (and identifying
with) a particular craft, these men became proverbial jacks-of-all-trades.
The resulting “craft polyvalence,” as Hansen notes, “undercut the historic
identification of the ‘artisan’ with a particular craft and its associated tra-
ditions, and in the process fashioned an emergent Yankee tradesman, with
all the ambiguities that term implies” (Hansen 1997: 89).27
Thus, more than in Britain, apprenticeship in the United States was
always less regulated and more informal and tenuous. On the side of em-
ployers, there is ample evidence of the kinds of abuses we have already
seen in Britain (Douglas 1921: 60–2; Motley 1907: 17). The lack of any
certification or monitoring left it entirely up to the employer what kind
of training, if any, a youth would receive. Employers abused apprentice-
ship especially in times of labor shortages, making use of “bogus” inden-
tures “as a device to obtain and hold youths to unskilled factory labor”
or (later) during the Civil War when apprentices were widely deployed as
strike breakers (quote is from Rorabaugh 1986: 202–3; D. Jacoby 1991:
896).28
As for apprentices, there were no strong incentives for youth to sub-
ject themselves to long years of training with a highly uncertain payoff.
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The problem of runaway apprentices was even more acute in the United
States than in Britain, and it continued despite legislation passed in
twelve states in the closing decades of the eighteenth century to curb the
problem (Elbaum 1989: 346–8). There was no stigma for American youth
who failed to complete their terms; on the contrary, the popular literature of
the day celebrated runaway apprentices such as Benjamin Franklin for
their spunk and initiative (Rorabaugh 1986: prologue and Chapter 7).
Poor youth were disinclined to pass up higher paying unskilled work to
pursue an apprenticeship, and certainly the more ambitious youth and
their parents were “discouraged by the uncertainty of the training offered”
(Douglas 1921: 83). These were also problems in Britain, but the unattrac-
tiveness of traditional apprenticeship would have been greater in the United
States, where the prospects for land ownership and independent employ-
ment, and the early spread of public education, created avenues for youth,
even poor youth, to pursue their own careers.29
The skills on which American industries relied in the early industrial
period were by and large not generated domestically, as in Germany or
Britain, nor through targeted foreign exchange sponsored by the state,
as in Japan. Rather, such skills were provided to employers through im-
migration, beginning in the 1830s and waxing and waning over the next
decades in response to business cycles in the United States (Shefter 1986:
200–1). “By the 1850s immigrants were a majority of the skilled craftsmen
in most large cities; in New York, for example, they dominated thirty-
two trades” (Rorabaugh 1986: 133).30 This influx of skilled workers –
mostly from the industrial districts of northern Europe – continued through
most of the 1880s. Artisans from England, Wales, and Germany provided
many of the skills on which early American industry was built; in some
cases foreign craftsmen were directly recruited through the intervention
of state legislatures acting in response to the “urgent appeal of prominent
employers” (Brody 1980: 15; Shefter 1986; quote is from Motley 1907:
18–19).
29 In Massachusetts free public schools began to spread from as early as 1700 (Douglas 1921:
44). Certainly by the end of the nineteenth century, the number of youth attending high
school was much higher in the United States than in Britain, and that number continued
to rise rapidly in the first two decades of the twentieth century (Jacoby 1985: 70).
30 Later, immigration would also provide a huge supply of unskilled workers: “from 1882 to
1900 immigration from Europe to the United States involved some 6.6 million persons”
(Klug 1993: 74). The implications of this shift in the kinds of workers entering the United
States are explored below.
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31 For a review of the literature on the “artisan origins of the American working class” see
Wilentz (1981).
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32 “If the apprentice would not try to learn his trade or serve faithfully, he was to forfeit his
back pay and the indenture would be cancelled. If he ran away before his term of service
expired, he was liable to a jail sentence. . . . [For his part] if the employer did not care for
the apprentice suitably according to the terms of the indenture and the provisions of the
law, he could be sued by the apprentice or by his parents. If it could be shown that the
employer had neglected his duty, the court was to cancel the indenture and impose a fine of
not less than $100 and not more than $1000, which was to be paid to the apprentice or to
his parent or guardian” (Douglas 1921: 67).
33 On the role of the courts in the United States in undermining pro-union legislation, see
also Hattam (1992).
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with employers over issues of managerial prerogative. The much later tim-
ing of craft union development in the United States (the IAM, for example,
was founded in 1888) relative to the drastic expansion of product markets
and to technological changes in the metalworking industries in the last two
decades of the nineteenth century meant that overall, joint regulation of ap-
prenticeship through collective agreement with unions was always shakier
than in Britain (Ulman 1955: 121, 311). Motley reports that of the 70 or so
unions that by his reckoning attempted to enforce apprenticeship as a pre-
requisite to membership in 1904, only 19 actually succeeded (Motley 1907:
58–60). He notes that in the case of the IAM the official rules regarding
apprenticeships were “hardly more than the recorded expression of opinion
of what should be the rule” (Motley 1907: 70).36
36 The IAM’s British counterpart, ASE, had by this time also long abandoned apprenticeship
as an explicit condition of membership, though they required that prospective members
should have worked in the trade five years, and be able to command the district rate.
37 The reasons for this have been analyzed especially thoroughly by Hansen (1997).
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38 They note, for example, that the textile industry around Lowell, Massachusetts, was already
more highly capitalized than in other countries in the early nineteenth century.
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39 There is a large literature dealing with the diversity of the American political economy and
with the role of specialized producers in it. See, for example, Scranton (1997), Sabel and
Zeitlin (1997), Hounshell (1984), Nelson (1992), Zeitlin (2000).
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What precise form these arrangements took, as Jacoby points out, varied
across different firms and segments of the industry, from explicit subcon-
tracting arrangements in which independent craftsmen were contracted to
perform specific jobs for which they employed their own workers (similar
to Japanese oyakata), to a more egalitarian “gang system” in which groups
of skilled craftsmen were directly employed by the firm but organized the
work among themselves (similar to craft unions in Britain) ( Jacoby 1985:
14–15).40 Both these systems served important functions for employers
in the early industrial period, and each was attached to specific training
arrangements.
One prominent strategy for securing skills and providing for training
embraced by a significant number of firms in the metalworking industries
in the early industrial period was internal contracting. As in the oyakata
system described for Japan, machine and metalworking firms negotiated
contracts with highly skilled workers for specific jobs in the plant. These
craftsmen then hired and supervised their own skilled work crew, who of-
ten themselves employed unskilled helpers (Brody 1980: 9–10; Rorabaugh
1986: 65; Jacoby 1985: Chapter 1 and especially 14–16). Inside contracting
was widely practiced as early as the 1820s in the Lowell machinery industry
(Rorabaugh 1986: 65), and it was common in the iron, steel, metalworking
and machinery industries throughout the late nineteenth century and (in
smaller companies) even into the early twentieth century (Clawson 1980:
28, 75–76; Buttrick 1952: 216; Nelson 1975: 37; Patten 1968: 18). Among
the companies using this system were such giants as Lowell (one of the 70
largest machine shops), Pratt and Whitney, and Whitin. As Clawson notes,
“those establishments which are known to have used inside contracting are
among the leaders of the U.S. industry of 1860 or 1880. Not only were they
among the largest companies of their time, but they were also the techno-
logical leaders of their day” (Clawson 1980: 76–7). In the machine industry
generally “inside contracting had spread between 1860 and 1890 to such
an extent that a government study found it ‘practically universal in New
England’ and commonplace elsewhere” (Montgomery 1989: 187).
For firms in skill-intensive industries, inside contracting offered a num-
ber of advantages. Above all, and in light of the severe skilled labor short-
ages throughout the nineteenth century, managers found it more efficient
40 The different models also coexisted and in many cases shaded into each other in practice. For
example, skilled workers who served as contractors for one job might later find themselves
working for another foreman on the next job (Clawson 1980: 107–8).
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and inexpensive to leave the recruitment of labor and even the day-to-day
management of production to autonomous (often foreign-speaking) crafts-
men (Soffer 1960: 144). Inside contractors performed vital functions in skill
formation, since these craftsmen employed and trained their own helper-
apprentices. By controlling work organization and job assignments, they
were essentially able to determine who acquired skills and of what sort. “At
a time when work experience was a far more important qualification than
education, the contractor could decide which employees should be trained
as skilled workers and which should do routine work” (Clawson 1980: 104;
Rorabaugh 1986: 65). Through their role as intermediaries in skilled labor
markets, inside contractors also served the function of “certifying” the skills
of specific workers. They could directly vouch for the specific job experi-
ence and training of the workers they had trained and help connect them
to jobs in the industry.
Such were also exactly the functions performed by unions of skilled work-
ers in the early industrial period, and as Soffer has pointed out, in some cases
the autonomous craftsmen of the subcontracting system formed the core
of early American Federation of Labor (AFL) unions (Soffer 1960). Where
skilled workers were well organized, employers sometimes found unions
extremely helpful as intermediaries as they navigated tight labor markets.
Employers turned to unions to help them recruit skilled labor, and (through
their role in apprentice training) vouch for (therefore, “certify”) the skills of
the workers they organized, thus reducing information costs to employers.
Unions also ensured that employers provided apprentices with all-round
training in the trade (important to the union to maintain high wage stan-
dards). A large number of historical studies have pointed to a high degree of
autonomy exercised by skilled workers in many nineteenth century factories
(for example, Montgomery 1989; Brody 1980). Even where employers did
not formally recognize unions, in some regions and industries they came
“to tolerate a high degree of control by unionized skilled workers in the
labor process and the labor market” (Klug 1993: 668–70; Haydu 1988: 28).
As in Britain, the stability of such arrangements was highly contingent
on local market conditions. Where local differences in the strength of craft
controls interfered with competition among firms in product markets em-
ployers vigorously resisted. In a way the exceptional case – that proves
the rule – was the stove foundry industry where unions and employers
reached a relatively enduring settlement in the late nineteenth century be-
cause the unusually well organized International Molders Union (IMU) was
able to aid employers in escaping a vicious cycle of cutthroat competition
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41 The most exhaustive study of this fascinating case can be found in Klug (1993: especially
482–501). But see also Motley (1907: Chapter IV, 42–52) for a contemporary account.
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42 It is no coincidence that the IMU stands out among organizations of metal craftsmen at
century’s end in banning the use of bucks (helpers) by its members.
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The resulting conflicts (similar in form and also in timing to the Great
Lockout in the British engineering industry described in Chapter 3) cul-
minated in the United States in a more concerted and, from management’s
perspective, overall more successful effort to eliminate union influence in
plant decision making – the “open shop” movement.43 Given their rela-
tively late emergence and weaker presence than in Britain, unions in the
United States were mostly deemed by employers to be too unevenly or-
ganized and insufficiently disciplined to be of use to them in regulating
competition among themselves and were seen as more likely than not to
introduce disruptive distortions. In addition, the development of mass mar-
kets, combined with technological changes
made union restrictions more irksome to U.S. employers and simultaneously re-
duced their reliance on craft unionists to get the work done. [Members of the
employers association for the metalworking industries (National Metal Trades As-
sociation, or NMTA)] thus had both greater interest and greater resources to attack
craft standards. Because the erosion of craft control was under way before the IAM’s
consolidation, U.S. employers had another advantage: relatively feeble union op-
position. The NMTA faced a union much weaker than the ASE. (Haydu 1988: 86;
see also Klug 1993: 334)44
43 On the “open shop” movement in the United States, see, among others, Brody (1980),
Montgomery (1989), Klug (1993).
44 Union presence, it should be noted, was highly uneven. In some localities, for example,
Detroit and Philadelphia, the IAM had established a significant presence among machinists
(Klug 1993: 668).
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45 This account draws on an excellent study by Harris (1991). Philadelphia is not the only case,
however; Cincinnati is another (see Haydu in progress), also Minneapolis (Millikan 2001).
In general, the smaller, more specialized machinery producers worried a lot about skills and
formed the backbone of an NAM campaign to encourage public vocational schools. Anxious
commentaries on the decline of apprenticeship that appeared in trade journals like American
Machinist and Iron Age in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries reflect the
concerns of these small skill-intensive producers. Cincinnati later made significant strides
in some aspects of training, working closely with educators such as Herman Schneider who
sought to bolster links between technical and practical training. I thank Jeffrey Haydu for
emphasizing the fact that there were a variety of local efforts along such lines.
46 In the 1920s firms that did not belong to the association also began to supply the MMA
with data on their own operations, and even large firms joined the small-firm-dominated
MMA in order to gain access to this information. It was extremely useful as an orientation
point in setting their own (above market) wages, to secure the top workers in the local labor
pool.
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use as “scab hatcheries,” that is, “merely a method by which the employ-
ers could train swarms of boys, inculcate them with anti-union doctrines,
and then bring them into factories to undermine wages and deprive union
men of employment” (quote from Douglas 1921: 315; see also Kelly 1920:
76; Hansen 1997: 480). Organized labor’s experiences with private trade
schools in the decades between about 1880 to 1910 did nothing to allay
their concerns. Even if “open hostility to the unions was practiced by only
a few schools . . . most of the schools were distinctly unsympathetic towards
collective bargaining and their covert influence was anti-union” (Douglas
1921: 316). When push came to shove, organized labor was more inclined to
oppose a separate vocational track that was susceptible to employer capture
than to stick to the current (albeit middle-class-oriented, overly academic)
system of public schooling, convinced as they were that “dedicated trade
and industrial schools, whether private or public, posed more of a threat
to labor market stability than vocational tracks within educator-dominated
public schools” (Hansen 1997: 482).47
By about 1910, organized labor had come around to a much more pos-
itive attitude toward public vocational schools (Cremin 1964: 50–7), and
the AFL wound up endorsing a proposal similar to NAM’s, though there
was no cooperation between the two.48 Overall, though, ongoing conflicts
between organized labor and employers over control issues subverted any
kind of coalition forming around a vocational alternative within the public
school realm, despite the fact that both sides saw (different) merits to such
a system (Douglas 1921: 328–9; Hansen 1997: 478, 483). The entire dis-
cussion over vocational education, therefore, produced only one piece of
(mostly ineffectual) national legislation, the 1917 National Vocational Ed-
ucation Act (Smith Hughes Act), which funded some state programs, but
which never managed to forge a strong link between school-based training
and the economy (for a full analysis, see Hansen 1997: Chapters 6–7). As
Kelly noted in 1920: “The chief fault of continuation education is that no
plan has been devised for combining civic and general academic studies with
technical or shopwork designed to help the pupil to make progress in his
employment . . . For these reasons [lack of a link to the economy and com-
pany needs] the teaching is strongly academic and children attend because
47 See for example, the statement by the president of the United Textile Workers of New York
City in 1909, worrying about the extent to which public and private trade schools would
be used to produce “half-baked journeymen” (in Kelly 1920: 76).
48 I thank Jeff Haydu for emphasizing this to me.
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they are compelled to, not because they hope to profit by the opportunity”
(Kelly 1920: 73).
49 On the Wisconsin “model” see especially Parker (1996) and Hansen (1997: Chapter 6),
and for a contemporary characterization see the article by R. L Cooley (superintendent
in charge of Milwaukee’s continuation schools) in the Bulletin of the National Association for
Corporation Schools, April 1914 (Cooley 1914).
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a minimum of five hours per week of paid time off to attend classes in the
local continuation schools, to submit to the regulation of trainees’ hours
and wages, and to adhere to a specification of the particular processes to
be taught the workmen and the approximate time to be spent on each.
The entire system was placed under the supervision of a state industrial
commission, which was granted powers to classify trades and industries, to
construct and supervise apprentice contracts, and to essentially underwrite
such contracts by acting as a mediator in the case of violations by, or dif-
ferences between, apprentices and employers (Douglas 1921: 78–9; Kelly
1920: 141). This commission established a “state apprenticeship board”
composed of representatives of employers, unions, and state continuation
schools, which was charged with administering the act and given certifica-
tion and oversight powers.
The system as it was developed in the 1910s in Wisconsin mimicked
some aspects of the German model, an outcome closely related to the
German roots of a number of prominent machine manufacturers, them-
selves immigrant skilled craftsmen or their descendants (Hansen 1997:
566). It proved possible – at least for a time – to institutionalize a fairly
well-articulated system of apprentice training that established transpar-
ent and uniform training standards for firms and instituted the kind of
certification process that made investment in training attractive as well
for youth. Backed up by legal and parapublic oversight, apprenticeship
thrived in the Wisconsin metalworking industries in the pre-World War I
period.50
The weakness of the Wisconsin experiment – and at the root of its demise
which began in the 1920s – was its limited scope. One big problem was
poaching externalities that made training increasingly expensive for firms,
as employers in neighboring cities (especially in northern Illinois) lured
skilled workers away with the prospect of higher wages (sustainable since
they were not bearing training costs) (Parker 1996; Hansen 1997: 655). The
disincentives to train were made stronger by concurrent trends, especially
stagnant employment in the 1920s that relieved some of the pressure in
skilled labor markets and made unskilled labor cheaper and more attrac-
tive. The most “committed” firms stayed in the Wisconsin system, but the
interest in training waned for many other employers (Parker 1996: 24–5),
and the 1920s saw Wisconsin’s metalworking firms turning increasingly
50 Douglas (1921: 79) reports an increase in the number of apprentice contracts signed be-
ginning in 1912 after the first legislation was passed (see also Morris 1921: 292).
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to the same rationalization strategies that had taken hold in other regions
(Hansen 1997: 651–2).51
51 As Parker points out there is some irony in the fact that even as their (coordinated, multi-
employer) apprentice system began to thrive, firms in the Wisconsin system (including
even leaders such as Falk) were pursuing rationalization policies and introducing mass
production techniques designed to reduce their reliance on skilled labor (Parker 1996: 4,
32). Whereas apprentice registrations had risen steadily between 1914 and 1925, from 21
to a peak of 821, they dropped steadily after 1925, to a mere 46 registrants in 1933. The
system as a whole was “pushed into oblivion by the economic crisis of the early 1930s”
(Hansen 1997: 650–1; Parker 1996).
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52 See, for example, the article by E. J. Mehren, who characterized corporation schools as “A
Factor in Alleviating Industrial Unrest” (Mehren 1914).
53 The pages of the Bulletin for corporation school pioneers hint at how firms were hoping,
through new training practices, to redirect the loyalties of young workers away from other
workers in their trade, and toward the company. They are full of testimony and tips for
employers on how to reduce “unhealthy” influences on young trainees. For example a
manager of one machinery company reported on his company’s policy: “The policy of the
shop school of the Shoe Machinery Company is to keep the boys away from the journeymen
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while learning for the first year or two” (NACS 1913: 106). A representative of Yale and
Towne Manufacturing Company reported his firm’s similar orientation: “Special emphasis
is placed on the fact that the students are separated for the first three years from the
journeymen while in the shop” (NACS 1913: 114).
54 Douglas (1921: 214) includes a (non-exhaustive) listing of 23 companies that opened cor-
poration training schools between 1905 and 1913. These include many of the leaders of
the metalworking industries, and leaders as well in the corporate welfare movement of the
day. See also Alexander (1921), which discusses the GE program in particular.
55 As in Britain, students paid their own fees, however.
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57 For an excellent account of developments during the war and their implications for post-
war industrial relations, see Haydu (1997). The following paragraphs draw particularly on
Chapter 2 of that book.
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vacation times, and higher wages – that even open shop employers were
prepared to accommodate. But militant unions also used wartime condi-
tions to put forth demands for more thoroughgoing changes. As Haydu
notes, “By early 1918 . . . workers were also pressing issues that more seri-
ously challenged the open shop order – above all, demands for classification,
union rights, and the recognition of union shop committees” (Haydu
1997: 59).
The call for classifications is especially significant in the context of the
present study. From the perspective of workers, the drive system was espe-
cially brutal, as it meant all-powerful and capricious foremen who sponta-
neously meted out highly arbitrary decisions regarding layoffs, promotions,
and wages. Workers looked on as foremen passed over qualified colleagues
in favor of relatives or friends for jobs and choice work assignments, and as
they put untrained workers on machinists’ jobs at lower pay. During the war
unions voiced demands for more systematic and equitable treatment, and
one prominent demand was for the introduction of classification schemes
with a small number of standard categories (each associated with a uniform,
minimum level of pay) ( Jacoby 1985: 151–2). In many cases such demands
were limited to skilled jobs, but in crucial centers of war production such
as Bridgeport and Newark, local unions took them further and requested
“extending proposals for classification to specialists and machine operators”
as well (Haydu 1997: 60).
All such demands struck at the heart of managerial control and employers
resisted them ferociously – and, one must add, very successfully. Where
classification schemes were introduced – through government sponsored
awards, for example – they were designed to curb flagrantly unfair policies
but they typically did not allow unions a role in setting or administering job
standards, nor did they facilitate coordination among workers on a local or
regional level (Haydu 1997: 66).58
Meanwhile, as skilled labor sources from Europe completely dried up
during the war (Commerce 1930: 27) and as pressures for production
mounted, firms abandoned their more elaborate training programs in fa-
vor of rationalization and work reorganization to reduce reliance on skilled
58 Government awards usually suggested that classifications be worked out jointly between
shop committees and management on a plant-by-plant basis, rather than by craft unions
on a local or regional level – which would have established standards and categories that
cut across different firms.
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The vestibule school is to the industrial organization what the vestibule is to the
home. In the home it is a place where the entrant stops, wipes his shoes on the mat,
adjusts his garments, and performs those duties that prepare him to enter the house
proper. In the factory or office it is a place which detains the incoming employee
until he has become adjusted to a new environment and has been prepared to handle
the essential elements of his prospective work. (quoted in Douglas 1921: 220)
The training was very short (in some cases three to ten days), typically in
a single operation. As workers were shifted to new jobs within the company,
they would in some cases be sent back to the vestibule school for additional
training on the new operation (Douglas 1921: 221). Companies like the
Recording and Computing Machines Company of Dayton, Ohio, started a
vestibule school in 1917–1918 in response to skill shortages. In this school,
and in many others like it founded at the time,
no effort was made to train for more than one particular job. The training was not
advertised as general mechanical education, but every pupil understood that she
was being taught in a very short period and that if she came to have any mechanical
skill it would have to be acquired through her work in the shop. In less than ten
days the girls were trained to operate hand-turret lathes on work requiring a high
59 The turn to narrow, specialized training also followed from difficulties firms had during
the war to get apprentices to sign on “at reasonable [wage] rates” (in light of tight labor
markets and thus the prospect of higher wages for semi-skilled work), and the problems of
keeping apprentices in place for the full training term (Kelly 1920: 134).
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degree of precision, and it is claimed by the company that these girls when entering
the shop attacked the work on their machines with vigor and confidence. (Kelly
1920: 156)60
American companies by and large did not abandon such practices when
the hostilities ended. On the contrary, the immediate postwar period re-
vealed just how flimsy was the commitment of even the premier training
firms to high quality all-round apprentice training.61 After a brief surge
in interest during the war (when membership in the National Associa-
tion of Corporation Schools rose from 37 members in September 1913 to
146 members by March 1920 [Douglas 1921: 215],62 the interest of mem-
ber firms completely collapsed when labor markets slackened after the war
ended (Hansen 1997: 570). Even the NACS “began to redirect its attention
from formal, broad based training for skilled and supervisory occupations
to the promotion of informal training schemes on the job” (Hansen 1997:
634). As explained by a representative of the American Management Asso-
ciation (into which the NACS successor organization was folded in 1923):
“Corporation schools as such have pretty much gone out of style. The
newer point of view is that of training on the job’ ” (quoted in Hansen
1997: 635).
The comparison to Germany is probably the most dramatic. Whereas
German engineering firms in the 1920s were making a concerted effort
(though VDMA and DATSCH) to render in-plant skill development for
manual workers more systematic and uniform, their U.S. counterparts
were mostly abandoning their more ambitious training efforts and instead
increasingly emphasizing “the recruitment, selection, and preferment of
personnel, especially of extensively schooled supervisory and white-collar
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63 Such was the case, for example, at GE, where the company had three hundred college
graduates as apprentices in 1921 (Douglas 1921: 219).
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64 Gemmill (1924) surveyed 150 firms, and found that 81 relied solely on recommendations
by foremen and supervisors. Formal procedures for job analysis and eligibility lists were
not widespread. A survey conducted in 1929 (cited in Jacoby 1985: 194) found that the
vast majority of firms (85%) still “used no formal system to rate workers for promotion
but rather relied on ‘personal observations’, which can be translated to mean that workers
were promoted at the foreman’s discretion. One semiskilled worker said that the personnel
department at his firm was ‘a joke’ and that workers got their promotions through ‘pull’ ”
( Jacoby 1985: 194).
65 For this reason, too, Gemmill’s (1924) study still discusses as a potential problem the practice
of “retardation” – where foremen hold back rather than promote their best workers, because
these workers are most valuable to the department for output.
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66 The same thing applied to layoffs. A survey of large firms published in 1930 found that
in two-thirds of firms, the layoff decisions taken in the downturn of 1929 were made by
foremen and line managers alone; other studies found that the proportion of firms that
involved personnel departments in layoff decisions declined from 36% in 1918 to 24% in
1929 ( Jacoby 1985: 193–4).
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made transparent to him but based on vague and arbitrary “mental lists”
that managers carried around with them, as in “so and so is a good man,
and ought to be shoved along” (Gemmill 1924: 241, 247).67
What are the implications of this for training? From Chapter 1, we recall
that systems of training emphasizing company-specific skills are based on
a sharing of the costs between workers and the firm. In Japan in the 1920s,
for example, workers’ wages began to be tied increasingly to the worker
(and specifically associated with seniority). This provided incentives for the
firm to continue to invest in a worker’s skills, among other reasons to justify
ongoing increases in a worker’s wage. Such a system also made it “safe”
for a worker to invest in company specific skills, knowing that the ongoing
acquisition of such skills would lead to ongoing advancement in the firm’s
internal labor market. In the United States, by contrast, piecework wage
systems meant that a worker’s earnings were determined mostly by the job
he was doing, and not by any characteristic of the worker himself. Moreover,
advancement in the firm hierarchy was not transparently linked to ongoing
acquisition of skills, and indeed continued to reflect arbitrary assessments
on the part of foremen. Despite the fact that many firms reported paying
closer attention to a worker’s length of tenure in transfer and promotion
decisions, seniority was only one consideration among many in the full
range of personnel decisions (Schatz 1977: 116). Reporting the results of
a survey in 1924, Gemmill reports that “in only two instances [out of 150]
can seniority be said to have attained first-rate importance” (Gemmill 1924:
238).68 The link between advancement and training was especially tenuous,
it appears, as evidenced in Gemmill’s off-hand remark that an analysis of the
training systems that existed in some of the firms he studied was “scarcely
essential to a study of industrial promotions” (Gemmill 1924: 244).
The same difference applied not just to movement from production job
to production job, but also to promotion to low-level supervisory posi-
tions. In Japan, the workers who were likely to be promoted to foremen
were the most skilled and experienced of the blue-collar workers. In the
United States, by contrast, workers selected for foremen jobs were more
likely to be simply the fastest: “Other things being equal, a fast worker is
67 According to Gemmill, 108 of 150 firms responded “no” to the question of whether they
had definite lines of promotion known to employees; one firm said that it did have definite
promotion lines but that these were known only to executives and supervisors (Gemmill
1924: 241).
68 It is interesting that these systems existed “by agreement with employees” in two large
railway companies.
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69 Although there was some retrogression of Japanese practices as well after the labor scarcity
and unrest of World War I had abated. For an analysis that stresses the parallels between
Japan and the United States more see Jacoby (1993).
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70 For an excellent account of the process through which this occurred, see Hansen (1997:
537–40).
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71 Government policies in the war encouraged the trend. “In 1940 the WMC [War Manpower
Commission] set up the Training Within Industry program, which offered training courses
to foremen. One of these courses, Job Methods, taught almost a quarter of a million foremen
how to perform job simplification analyses” and assisted employers in setting up job ladders
that led from one simple job to another (Jacoby 1985: 263–4).
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drill sergeants and more like human relations specialists – in the interests
of forestalling labor unrest and unionization. Although welfare capitalist
firms in the United States continued to support various policies that made
them attractive places to work, a crucial difference is that continuing de-
centralization of key aspects of personnel policy – including wage setting,
promotions, and layoffs – meant that workers could not be sure that any
investment they made in company skills would be rewarded through system-
atic advancement. Moreover, to the extent that they existed, career ladders
often had a rather low and concrete ceiling, since American employers were
much more likely than their Japanese colleagues to turn to college grad-
uates to staff even lower level managerial positions. In sharp contrast to
Japan, the line between workers and management hardened dramatically in
the United States in this period. And for this reason, too, ambitious youth
faced strong incentives to avoid vocational training (of all varieties) like the
plague in favor of an academically oriented education that opened many
more and more diverse opportunities for advancement in the labor market
generally.
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1 Some but not all. Some of the literature on “institutional choices” in the transitions to
democracy and capitalism in Eastern Europe appears to embrace such a view (for exam-
ple, Crawford and Lijphart 1995). Collier and Collier (1991), however, adopt a definition
of “critical juncture” that does not necessarily (or automatically) imply that institutional
innovation occurs in short episodes or “moments” of openness. Their definition also does
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not imply a primacy of “agency” and “choice” over structure in critical junctures, as other
treatments sometimes do.
2 Space and time do not permit me to go into the separate story that could be told about
vocational training in East Germany after the Second World War and after unification (but
see Culpepper 2003; Jacoby 2000).
3 I owe this formulation to comments made by Peter Katzenstein at a conference in Cologne,
Germany.
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This chapter picks up the discussion from Chapter 2, and tracks the fur-
ther development of vocational training institutions in Germany from the
1930s to the present. The system not only survived but experienced impor-
tant elements of consolidation and reinforcement in the context of historic
“breakpoints.” Institutional survival was strongly laced with elements of
institutional transformation, however, as the form and functions of these
institutions underwent successive waves of renegotiation to bring them in
line with changed social, political, and economic conditions. A central mes-
sage of this chapter is that “stasis” is a particularly misleading notion when
it comes to explaining institutional stability, for what we find here is that
in order to survive, institutions can rarely just “stand still.” Their survival
is guaranteed not by their “stickiness” but by their ongoing adaptation to
changes in the political and political–economic environment.
This case, therefore, documents how institutions survive and change
through ongoing political renegotiation. A huge literature has documented
the political and political–economic biases of institutions and it is no sur-
prise, therefore, that these institutions are subject to continuous contesta-
tion as actors with different goals struggle over their form and especially
over the functions they serve. Such political contestation produces frequent
revision – sometimes big, sometimes small – as the support coalitions on
which the institutions are based (and the relative power of their supporters)
shifts.
This case provides illustrations of the general modes of change (dis-
cussed in Chapter 1) that ongoing strategic maneuvering and political con-
testation produce. In the 1920s, industry was unable to “break into” the
regulatory structure of the traditional handicraft system, but the machine
industry nonetheless succeeded in constructing voluntary institutions and
practices alongside, and in interaction with, the existing parapublic system.
This “layering” of a new system onto and alongside the old was enormously
consequential. The coexistence and interaction of the two altered the tra-
jectory of skill formation in Germany as a whole – pulling it away from the
decentralization and lack of systematic and uniform regulations character-
istic of the Handwerk model, toward the high degree of standardization
and uniformity now considered hallmarks of the system.
The process of standardization and homogenization advanced signif-
icantly under the Nazi regime. This was partly a matter of government
policy; military interests and war mobilization called for a large number of
skilled workers, and the regime pushed skill standardization so that work-
ers could be deployed flexibly according to military needs and exigencies.
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well within the bounds of the possible. What is less clear, however, is the
political will and especially the collective capacity to reform, particularly
among employers who have historically been the system’s most important
“carriers.” As Baethge has pointed out, we now find a curious role rever-
sal at work, in which unions – long the critics of the system – are now its
main defenders, whereas many key employers appear to have lost inter-
est, as a changed competitive environment has brought them to a deep
reconsideration of their own interests in maintaining it (Baethge 1999: 12).
4 On the politics of the Nazi regime toward labor, see, especially Schneider (1999); on the
relationship between business and the state, see especially Berghoff (2001), Hayes (1987;
2001), Ullmann (1988). On Nazi policies in the area of training and education generally
see Heinemann (1980) and on the infighting within the regime over training see Wolsing
(1977: 689–739) and Frese (1991: 251–332).
5 There were many actors making claims in this area, and beyond the main line of cleavage
I go into below, there were other conflicts and rivalries, for instance between the German
Labor Front and the Hitler Jugend. These conflicts were important but less directly related
to the outcomes I am interested in here.
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two main opponents. One was the German Labor Front (Deutscher
Arbeitsfront, or DAF) under the leadership of Robert Ley, a man whom
Timothy Mason once described as “Hitler’s most slavish follower” (Mason
1966:114). The other was the Economics Ministry, particularly under
Hjalmar Schacht, working alongside and mostly very much in the inter-
ests of Germany’s organized business elite.6
Training policy was important to the new regime both as a component of
its youth activities and as a means for fighting youth unemployment which
had skyrocketed after 1929 (Pätzold 1989: 278). The elimination of the
unions in 1933 allowed the old (Weimar) debate over the character of the
apprentice contract to be resolved, as apprentice contracts were declared
unequivocally to constitute an educational rather than an employment re-
lationship (Wolsing 1977: 245). When implemented under the National
Socialists, however, this measure took on a different meaning, and opened
the door for the Nazi organizations (and in particular the DAF) to claim for
itself a more central role in this area (Hansen 1997: 606).7 Ley immediately
recognized the importance of training policy and became active in this area
from the very start.8 Similar (ironically) to the Social Democratic program
of the 1920s, the DAF called for the guaranteed right of all youth to training,
and urged every employer to do his part (Seubert 1977: 100).
Vocational training was also extremely important to the Nazi regime
on very practical grounds, as a key institutional support for rearmament
and later war making. The reality here was that the National Socialist state
relied on the expertise and connections of the old business elite, and thus
needed to preserve elements of the old social structure to keep the economy
going and particularly to gear up for war (Berghoff 2001: 95). The result was
a close alliance between the Economics Ministry and organized economic
interests, which took on a “Janus-faced” character, serving simultaneously
as agents of the state but also as lobbying organizations for business interests
within it (Ullmann 1988: 197, 226).9 What industry mostly lobbied for, and
6 A number of important works explore the relationship between industry and state in the
Nazi era. See, for example, Hayes (1987), Gall and Pohl (1998), Hayes (2001), Ullmann
(1988), Berghoff (2001).
7 On the struggle over the role of politics in education policy, see Kaiser and Loddenkemper
(1980: passim).
8 A comprehensive treatment of labor policy in Nazi Germany, and of the activities of the
German Labor Front, can be found in Schneider (1999).
9 There was, therefore, a great deal of continuity in the economic elite between the Weimar
period and the Nazi era. About one-half of the managing directors and about a third of the
heads of the Reichsgruppe Industrie (RGI) and its various subunits (Gliederungen) were people
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who had occupied similar positions before 1933 (Ullmann 1988: 197). Even if they were
ambivalent about the National Socialists, many industry leaders (VDMA vice chairman Otto
Sack was one) concluded that it was better to get involved in the new corporatist structures
being set up, and took up positions in the new order either out of narrow self-interest or
because they saw this as a way to protect their associations from domination by state and
party (Weber 1991: 122–4).
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the iron, metal, and construction industries employing ten or more work-
ers to train apprentices (Hansen 1997: 607; Wolsing 1977: 160; Schneider
1999: 370).
State promotion of apprenticeship training produced a dramatic rise in
the overall number of youth in training. “In 1933 about 45 percent of in-
dustrial workers were skilled, another 20 percent semi-skilled and 35 per-
cent unskilled. After 1938 about 90 percent of all boys leaving grammar
school, together with increasing numbers of those who had left earlier, en-
tered three-year apprenticeships in industry, artisanship (Handwerk), com-
merce, or agriculture” (Gillingham 1985: 428). The state mandate to train
(in some industries) and subsidies (more generally) were important to these
outcomes. One should also note, however, that, with unions out of the
picture and with wages more or less frozen starting in 1932, the political–
economic context during the subsequent economic recovery would have
encouraged increased investment in skills even by a strict economic logic
(Herrigel 1996b: 139). A large number of firms trained their workers ei-
ther in production itself, or in “training corners” in close proximity to it.
An increasing number of firms created in-house training centers as well.
The number of such training workshops increased between 1933 and 1940
from 167 to 3,304. Whereas in 1933, only 16,222 workers had received
training in such workshops, the number rose to 244,250 by 1940 (Kipp and
Miller-Kipp 1990: 34; Pätzold 1989: 278).
An important focus of attention under the Nazi regime was training in
industry, which would obviously be of crucial importance to the military.
With the economic recovery, skill shortages hampered the regime’s military
build-up and set in motion disruptive poaching among firms (Mason 1966:
128). Thus, beginning in 1935, a number of measures were undertaken to
upgrade and clarify the status of industrial apprenticeship, with the goal of
redirecting labor out of Handwerk and into industry (particularly the metal-
working industries). The voluntary arrangements developed in the Weimar
years allowing industrial apprentices to be examined under the auspices of
the Handwerk chambers (with representation by the IHK) were dispensed
with and the industry and trade chambers were granted powers equivalent
to the HWK to certify training in industry. Against opposition and foot-
dragging by Handwerk, the industrial Facharbeiter exam was accorded the
same recognition and status that the journeyman’s exam in the craft sec-
tor had long enjoyed, including the right of a certified Facharbeiter to be
admitted to the Master exam (Pätzold 1989: 276: Greinert, 1994: 45).
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Apprentices taking
Year Facharbeiter Exam Percent change
1935 2,801
1936 7,748 +176.6
1937 23,832 +407.6
1938 46,682 +95.8
1939 110,810 +137.4
1940 85,466 −22.9
1941 99,321 +16.2
1942 121,653 +22.5
Source: Wolsing 1977: 357fn3.
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and methods, thus ensuring that they would be widely diffused throughout
the economy (Abel 1963: 58–9; Stratmann 1990: 47–9). The training ordi-
nances DATSCH developed – and that after 1937 were officially recognized
through the Reich Minister for Economics (Kipp 1990: 229; Münch 1991:
34; Pätzold 1989: 274–5) – specified the important features of training in
a particular trade, including: the occupational title, job description (what
specific skills had to be mastered for certification in the trade), the dura-
tion of the training program, and the structure of the training (DATSCH
1937).10 These ordinances established a set of uniform rules as to what was
expected both of training firms and of the apprentices.
Apprentices could only be trained in recognized occupations and on
the basis of standardized training materials worked out and disseminated
nationally. These measures imposed a much higher degree of uniformity
across sectors than ever before, ensuring that anyone certified as a “skilled
mechanic” (for example) possessed the same technical skills and theoretical
knowledge irrespective of the firm or sector in which he received his train-
ing. Moreover, and also starting in 1937, apprentices who completed their
training programs – whether in Handwerk or in industry – were required
to take the journeyman (Handwerk) or Facharbeiter (industry) examination.
“This compelled masters and training firms to present their apprentices
for evaluation and served as much to monitor the quality of the training
apprentices received as to certify their skills” (Hansen 1997: 608).
Training ordinances were worked out not just for industry but for
Handwerk as well. This was important because, as we have seen, in the 1920s
the Handwerk sector had lagged behind industry in establishing uniform
guidelines for training. After the legislation of 1937, however, Handwerk
firms too were forced into greater systematization by an exam system that
was “increasingly based, as in industry, on standardized occupational def-
initions, training procedures, and competence benchmarks that masters
were not free to ignore” (Hansen 1997: 618, italics mine; Pätzold 1989:
275). Later, DATSCH also began to work out guidelines for semi-skilled
occupations as well, which also rendered training for these jobs more sys-
tematic and uniform across firms (Rathschlag 1972: 22, 24). By the end of
the war DATSCH (by this time subsumed into the state and converted into
the National Institute for Vocational Training (or Reichsinstitut für Berufs-
ausbildung in Handel und Gewerbe) had developed training materials for
10 In 1937, 121 industrial trades were officially recognized by the state, a number that increased
steadily over the next years (Kipp 1990: 229).
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11 The Weimar constitution had called for compulsory schooling until age 18, but this was
never really implemented nationwide, enforcement being left to the states where there was
great variety in whether and to what extent trade school attendance was obligatory (Pätzold
1989: 280–1). Moreover, the trade school system experienced a crisis in the late years of
the Weimar Republic, due to the depression. Notably and characteristically for the time,
budget cuts proposed in 1931 were opposed by DATSCH as well as by the unions, and
very much approved by Handwerk and segments of industry that relied less heavily on
skills than DATSCH’s main constituency among machine firms (Pätzold 1989: 281–2). See
Chapter 2, on the coalitions of the Weimar period.
12 Although the Nazi regime introduced compulsory trade school attendance on a national
level, the schools were subsequently left to languish as the war effort geared up and as
training came to be more narrowly focused on specific, and highly pragmatic, military
needs.
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13 The number of participants involved in these competitions rose between 1934 and
1939 from five hundred thousand to over three million according to one source (von
Rauschenplat 1945: 25), and one million in 1936 to 3.6 million in 1939, according to
another (Mason 1966: 124).
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1945: 26).14 As the head of the competition, Artur Axmann, put it, the event
operated like an “X-ray for vocational training” which could be used to re-
veal not just technical but also ideological deficits in training (Kipp 1990:
254; Pätzold 1989: 275).
These measures all served to guide youth into the “appropriate” training
slots, which is to say into occupations that served the state and its military
interests. A previous (1927) law had put the Imperial Institute for Labor Ex-
change and Unemployment Insurance (Reichsanstalt für Arbeitsvermittlung
and Arbeitslosenversicherung) in charge of vocational counseling and match-
ing youths to apprenticeship slots, but these services had not been compul-
sory on either side. In 1935 the Nazi government gave the Reichsanstalt en-
hanced powers, both as a provider of vocational counseling and as a central
clearing house for matching apprentices to training slots (Kipp 1990: 221).
The government made all youth subject to obligatory vocational coun-
seling, attempting thus to steer them into the proper vocational channels
(Kaiser and Loddenkemper 1980: 79). Whereas in 1926–27, 31% of all
14-year-olds received vocational guidance and in 1931–32 this was up to
67%, the number reached 90% in 1941 (von Rauschenplat 1945: 22). These
functions were backed up by the 1938 school law which, in addition to
rendering vocational education compulsory for all school leavers, required
them to report to their local employment office within two weeks of leaving
school (Kipp 1990: 222; Gillingham 1985: 426; Greinert 1994: 56).
14 As this was a DAF program, there was also a strong ideological component to the com-
petition. DAF directly ran the training program at companies like VW, and held it up as
a showcase for its concepts. The Wolfsburg facility came out especially well in the annual
skills competition (Kipp 1990: Chapter 12).
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for skill formation. Some of the previous political obstacles were swept away
through brute repression. The elimination of the unions removed the need
to reach an accommodation with organized labor. Other lines of cleavage,
for example, between Handwerk and industry and between different seg-
ments of industry who advocated radically different models of training (see
Chapter 2) were erased or patched over in the Nazi period. This section
deals with the politics through which this took place.
The National Socialist regime, redefining private-sector training as an
educational relationship, “rendered it a public trust and duty” (Hansen 1997:
615, italics in original; Molitor 1960: 16). This settled a long-standing
conflict between unions and employers in the Weimar period in favor of
the latter. In the Nazi era, however, the reclassification of training became
important mostly because it provided the Nazi party and the DAF with
justification to insert itself into the organization and administration of skill
formation. Employers and their organized representatives resented such
intrusions. From their perspective they replaced unwanted meddling by the
unions with similarly unwelcome meddling by party functionaries. Business
therefore resisted these trends and its interests were represented within the
state apparatus by the Reich Ministry of Economics which had its own
reasons to oppose party influence (Wolsing 1977: 323). In what follows I
return to the main players in the vocational training debates and sketch out
the ways in which their interests were represented, re-thought, and partly
reconfigured in the Nazi era.
15 Until this time, a master’s certificate was not required, and only about 30% of self-employed
artisans had one at this time (Berghoff 2001: 81; Lenger 1988: 197). It turns out that those
without the certificate were not actually stripped of their right to practice a handicraft trade.
Instead, most of them were given until the end of 1939 to “make up” the exam, and even
this was relaxed later (though the regulation did affect anyone seeking master status after
this) (Lenger 1988: 197).
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16 On the effects of Nazi policies on the Handwerk sector, see especially von Saldern (1979),
see also Schneider (1999: 370–2), Lenger (1988: 195–202).
17 Handwerker also complained about mandatory high contributions to compulsory organi-
zations, as well as to the introduction in 1937 of compulsory accounting (Lenger 1988:
197, 200).
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(Hansen 1997: 617; Greinert 1994: 50). As we have seen, however, many of
the organizational innovations introduced under National Socialism pro-
moted standardization in Handwerk training – something that some but by
no means all handicraft firms welcomed.18
The certification powers that Handwerk chambers had enjoyed since
1897 were now for the first time explicitly married to increased uniformity
in the content of training. The handicraft sector had greeted with great
suspicion the regime’s promotion of DATSCH as its main advisory organ
for vocational training, correctly fearing encroachment on Handwerk au-
tonomy through the increased influence of industry (Wolsing 1977: 430).
Although a comprehensive rationalization of Handwerk training proved
elusive in the Nazi period (because of difficulties in monitoring and en-
forcement), the overall result was to move training in the Handwerk sector
“closer to the organizational principles of industrial vocational training”
(Greinert 1994: 50; see also Schneider 1999: 371–2; Pätzold 1989: 270).
In addition, Handwerk firms were increasingly affected by the war econ-
omy, as the state, over time, took a stronger hand in directing war materials
and skilled labor, with the result that many shops went under for lack of
raw materials (Lenger 1988: 199). The most direct state involvement in this
regard came through the so-called Auskämmeaktionen (or “combing out”
operations) in 1939 and 1943, when large numbers of artisans were forced
to close their shops, without compensation, to free up labor for the army or
for industry (Ullmann 1988: 189; Lenger 1988: 200–1). Lenger reports that
in the second half of 1939, almost two hundred thousand artisanal shops
(mostly the smallest and most traditional one-person shops) were forcibly
closed in this way (Lenger 1988: 200). The Nazi era had widely diverse ef-
fects on the Handwerk sector, proving quite lucrative for those firms able to
participate in the rearmament boom, whereas others, more marginal politi-
cally and economically, were weeded out altogether (Lenger 1988: 198–9).
18 These included the introduction of a uniform apprentice contract, guidelines for mas-
ter examinations, the development of technical materials for the apprentice and journey-
men’s examinations, and the introduction in 1938 of a national apprentice roll that sub-
sumed the previous Handwerk rolls (Wolsing 1977: 269–70; Kipp 1990: 224–30; Pätzold
1989: 269–70; Hansen 1997: 594–619, especially 617–19).
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19 The split between the Economic Ministry and the DAF, and the animosity between the
leaders of the two – Hjalmar Schacht and Robert Ley – were legendary and by no means
confined to issues of vocational training (see, for example, Hayes 1987: Chapter 4).
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with the Ministry of Economics. The conflict that unfolded was partly a
pure jurisdictional turf war, but overlaid on this were questions about the
balance between the ideological and the technical aspects of training and
above all the balance between direct state regulation on one hand, and
managerial autonomy and employer self-regulation on the other (Wolsing
1980: 306–8).
Dinta was the creation of heavy industry in the Weimar period and
its longtime leader Carl (later Karl20 ) Arnhold promoted a view of vo-
cational training explicitly designed to provide a more autarkic alterna-
tive to DATSCH’s collectivist ideas. Dinta’s concept since its inception in
1925 was to encourage the development of systems of training that would
be under the exclusive control of the individual firms and that would si-
multaneously promote systematic training and strong company loyalties.21
Dinta’s mission underwent a significant transformation, however, through
its affiliation in the Nazi era with the German Labor Front (DAF), first
(in 1933) as an independent but associated institute known as the German
Institute for National-Socialist Technical Trade Research and Education
(Deutsches Institut für Nationalsozialistische Technische Arbeitsforschung und –
schulung) (Seubert 1977: 96; Kaiser and Loddenkemper 1980: 78; Greinert
1994: 46). A year later it was completely absorbed when Arnhold was named
head of DAF’s Office for Vocational Training and Works Management (Amt
für Berufserziehung und Betriebsführung, AfBB) (Seubert 1977: 98; Greinert
1994: 46; Schneider 1999: 209–10).
DAF’s interest in Dinta emanated from Ley’s ambitions to lay claim to a
large role in training policy. Dinta brought with it years of experience and
expertise in this area (Wolsing 1980: 305). There were also some obvious
affinities between Dinta’s ideology and that of DAF (von Rauschenplat
1945: 14–18).22 Anti-communism, anti-unionism, and the idea of a plant
community resonated strongly with National Socialist ideology; both DAF
and Dinta thought of training not in the narrow sense of technical skills,
20 After 1933, he adopted the more Germanic spelling of his first name (Gillingham 1985:
424).
21 Different, therefore, from DATSCH, which unlike Dinta worked through trade and busi-
ness associations in the interests of skill standardization (therefore also interchangeable
skills and with no particular ambitions to generate company loyalty).
22 Hitler had admired Dinta’s work in the area of training for some time. Arnhold met Hitler
in 1931 and worked discreetly with the National-Socialist Party (Nationalsozialistische
Deutsche Arbeiterpartei, NSDAP) before it took power, though it was only after Dinta
was brought into the German Labor Front that the organization publicly embraced Na-
tional Socialism (Seubert 1977: 92; Kipp and Miller-Kipp 1990: 28; Gillingham 1985: 425).
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but as a vehicle for indoctrination or, as they put it, “training for the ‘whole
person’” (Kaiser and Loddenkemper 1980: 84; Seubert 1977: 90). For Dinta
and Arnhold, the association with DAF also had its attractions. The most
obvious advantage was that it gave Dinta access to the resources of a major
player in the new regime, and Dinta did not want for financial support for
its concepts: “By late 1936 Dinta had vast sums of money at its disposal and
was running 400 apprenticeship training workshops while another 150 were
in preparation. The various Dinta training schools and programs employed
25,000 teachers and had taught 2.5 million workers” (Nolan 1994: 234).
DATSCH, meanwhile, had been incorporated into the state, although
on quite different terms. DATSCH had a longer history of involvement in
vocational training than Dinta, and the work it did on behalf of system-
atic training in the 1920s had earned it widespread recognition and respect
in business and government circles. Even before 1933, the National Eco-
nomics Ministry as well as state ministries referred to DATSCH materials
in their decrees on vocational training (Seubert 1977: 99). In the first years
of National Socialism, DATSCH remained a purely private economic in-
stitute, with a loose affiliation to the Economics ministry, but by 1935 it had
been officially designated as the Ministry’s main advisory organ (Wolsing
1977: 278; Greinert 1994: 46; see also DATSCH 1937). Later (1939), it
was converted into a governmental agency in its own right, the National
Institute for Vocational Training in Trade and Industry (Reichsinstitut für
Berufsausbildung in Handel und Gewerbe), and its jurisdiction expanded to
cover not just industry but Handwerk as well (Wolsing 1977: 278–9; Pätzold
1989: 273).
DATSCH’s approach to vocational training continued to stress the tech-
nical and functional aspects, and the organization remained strongly con-
nected to industrial interests in general and to employers’ chambers in
particular.23 With these economic interests and backed up by the Reich
Ministry of Economics, DATSCH represented a perspective on training
at odds with DAF’s more ideological approach. In the National Socialist
period DATSCH worked in a de facto alliance with the Ministry of Eco-
nomics in the interests of industry and economy, as both sought to keep
the technical and functional aspects of training from being subordinated to
the DAF’s ideological agenda and, more important and more generally, to
23 By contrast, as we have seen, in the Weimar period, Dinta had not fostered close relations
with organized business associations, preferring to organize its work around individual
companies.
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protect firms to the extent possible from direct state or party intrusion into
managerial affairs.
24 Arnhold was in an overall ambiguous position; Ley remained suspicious of Dinta because of
its links to industry, and sometimes accused the organization of putting its ties to industry
above its ties to the DAF (Frese 1991: 253–4).
25 This was part of a general conflict over power and influence within the National Socialist
regime, between the Economics Ministry and DAF (Wolsing 1977: Part VI; Hayes 1987:
Chapter 4).
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or focal point) (Frese 1991: 261) for all aspects of training policy cre-
ated immediate jurisdictional problems in light of the RWM’s competing
claims (exercised mostly through delegation to DATSCH and administered
through organized business interests themselves).
A meeting between DAF and the Economics Ministry in March 1935
produced a vague agreement (the so-called Leipzig Agreement) that pre-
sumably obligated DAF to seek the “prior approval of the Organization
of Industry for any measure affecting the economy” (Seubert 1977: 103–4;
Mason 1966: 124). Specifically, in the area of training, Schacht had appar-
ently been willing to accept a certain division of labor: The DAF would
be responsible for ideological–political training and employers and their
associations would be responsible for technical qualification (Seubert 1977:
107). Ley soon found this too constraining, however, and – invoking a
number of decrees by Hitler – continued to claim competency in the whole
area of vocational training and continuing education. He considered the
private-sector organizations of self-government (for example, chambers)
to be “relics of the old system,” and sought to subordinate them to the
party (quote is from Seubert 1977: 105; see also Wolsing 1977: 241; Mason
1966: 124; Greinert 1994: 45–7).
In the ensuing years, Ley sought to reinforce his claim to authority in
the training area with policies that directly contradicted government pol-
icy, therefore deeply irritating Schacht (Wolsing 1977: 309), but Schacht’s
protests “followed one another into the waste-paper baskets of the Labour
Front [DAF]” (Mason 1966: 124). In 1935, in flat contradiction of the
Leipzig Agreement, Ley’s lieutenants began to set up DAF training courses,
also claiming the exclusive right to award industrial qualifications. Schacht
and industry representatives viewed this as a direct assault on the rights of
the chambers and economic groups (Seubert 1977: 104). The Reichsgruppe
Industrie (RGI) advised firms to stay away from AfBB (as Dinta was by now
called) and DAF, and to work instead to implement the policies of the Eco-
nomics Ministry (Frese 1991: 261, 298 fn143). For his own sake, but also at
the urging of “influential firms” who wanted the situation clarified in their
interest, Schacht issued an official decree that plant-based vocational train-
ing should be based on DATSCH materials, and not the materials produced
by the Office of Vocational Training within DAF (Frese 1991: 297–8; Kipp
1990: 229; Schneider 1999: 365; Seubert 1977: 110).26
26 A further conflict centered on the notebooks in which apprentices were meant to record
their progress in training. DATSCH had originally introduced these materials, but soon
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A number of other such conflicts arose, with actors cleaving along the
same lines. DAF opposed the Economic Ministry’s (1938) introduc-
tion of uniform nationwide apprentice lists (reichseinheitliche gewerbliche
Lehrlingsrolle), preferring instead to maintain its own “lists of occupational
cadres” (Berufsstammrolle), which were more comprehensive and provided
an instrument of control even beyond the exam for skilled industrial work-
ers (Facharbeiterprüfung). This bid was rejected by the Economics Ministry
which forbade the use of DAF’s rolls, a move that was largely successful,
as the vast majority of Facharbeiter did wind up registered with the IHK
(Wolsing 1977: 269–271). In the end, the DAF’s alternative apprentice
lists, as well as their model apprentice contract, were superseded by a sin-
gle uniform list and apprentice contract worked out through the national
economic chambers (Reichswirtschaftskammer) and underwritten by the
Economics Ministry (Wolsing 1977: 270–1; Kipp 1990: 225–8).
There were also furious conflicts over testing procedures. DAF and AfBB
attempted to require that the chambers place DAF representatives on their
examination boards, and DAF at one point even developed its own testing
system. Industry resisted these moves, and was backed up by the Economics
Ministry, which insisted on the sole right to testing through the industry
and trade chambers and which also instructed the chambers not to test ap-
prentices who had not registered with them but rather with the competing
DAF (Frese 1991: 272, 301–2; Schneider 1999: 364–5). Organized busi-
ness (through the Reichsgruppe Industrie, or RGI) offered Schacht “massive
support” and warned its members not to put their own role in testing in
jeopardy by adopting DAF materials (Frese 1991: 272–3).
Through all these jurisdictional conflicts, industry rallied behind the
Economics Ministry under Schacht, which consistently represented the in-
terests of organized business and sought to protect the rights of the cham-
bers to administer key aspects of the training system (Frese 1991: 259,
262). These conflicts were never fully resolved with a clear and unambigu-
ous delegation of authority (Wolsing 1980: 308). Moreover, industry lost
its most reliable ally when Schacht left at the end of 1937. In any case,
his position had been weakened by the establishment of a separate “Four
Year Plan” Office under Hermann Göring (Ullmann 1988: 187). Schacht’s
after, Dinta introduced its own version. The DAF intervened on the side of Dinta, at-
tempting to force firms to adopt its materials with the argument that DATSCH’s behavior
was interfering with DAF’s ability to pursue the mission assigned to it by order of the
Führer (Wolsing 1977: 308–9).
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successor adopted the same general policies, however, and over time the
DAF’s position in training policy was weakened by the firms themselves
(which engaged in a great deal of shirking and foot-dragging) and the onset
of war, which encouraged the regime to adopt an increasingly pragmatic
and very instrumental approach to training. As the war economy geared up,
“ ‘duplication of work’ in the area of vocational training was increasingly
dismantled to the benefit of the Reich Ministry of Economics” (Greinert
1994: 46; see also Kipp and Miller-Kipp 1990: 34). In May 1941, the DAF’s
Office for Vocational Training and Plant Management was merged into
the (DATSCH successor) Reichsinstitut für Berufsausbildung, thus becoming
formally subordinate to the Economics Ministry (Stratmann and Schlösser
1990: 47–9; Greinert 1994: 47).
Especially important in the present context was the effect these ongoing
conflicts had in promoting among business interests greater unity on the
issue of training than had prevailed before the war. Heavy industry – having
always embraced a more autarkic and resolutely firm-centered approach to
training – had not been enthusiastic about registering their apprentices with
the IHK, with the imposition of a model apprentice contract, or with the
review of apprentice contracts through the IHK. Over time, however, and
in light of the threat posed by DAF to sideline organized business interests
altogether, these firms came around. As Frese puts it, “the activities of the
DAF [in this area] . . . strongly encouraged firms to change their attitude”
(Frese 1991: 272).
27 There is a long-standing debate in German historiography on whether the Nazi period had
an overall modernizing or reactionary impact on German society and economic institutions.
(For a very useful review and argument, see Berghoff 2001.)
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the National Socialist regime did was to bring these two strands decisively
together. The regime granted industrial training the same rights and status
as Handwerk training, backed up by state recognition of uniform industrial
profiles and strong promotion of standardized training. Handwerk training
became more systematic as a result of the application (under state auspices)
of uniform occupational profiles and standardized training ordinances of the
sort pioneered in industry (Hansen 1997: 617). Taken together, these mea-
sures gave a tremendous boost to both the numbers of apprentices trained
in Germany and standardization in the training they received.
Over time, however, the exigencies of war and the chaotic administrative
apparatus often produced stopgaps and shortcuts that were very detrimen-
tal to training. As the war continued, training times were shortened in
some trades, against the protests of some segments of industry, worried
about declining quality in skills and not happy about the prospect of paying
17-year-olds skilled worker wages (Frese 1991: 285–7). The regime also fre-
quently had to reverse course in ways that produced confusion and conflict.
For example, the policies put in place in 1935 to draw youth into skilled oc-
cupations were overall rather too successful, and led to serious shortages of
semi-skilled operators in many industries (Frese 1991: 279–80; Gillingham
1985: 424, 427; Hansen 1997: 609–10; Rathschlag 1972: 17). A great many
of the jobs involved in mobilizing for war could easily be learned in less than
two years and some employers (particularly in the iron and steel industry)
complained about the discrepancy between the training policies they were
required to pursue and their actual production needs. Having elevated the
status and attractiveness of industrial training, however, and having com-
mitted itself to the right to training for every youth, the National Socialist
state had to search for ways to attract youth to the “correct” (in this case, in-
creasingly, semi-skilled) occupations. This is the background to the efforts
to upgrade semi-skilled training by having DATSCH work out training
materials and secure official state recognition for these occupations as well
(Rathschlag 1972: 17, 24; Gillingham 1985: 429).28
28 Semi-skilled occupations had been an issue in the Weimar years as well. In the earlier
period the point was to draw sharper distinctions between skilled trades and semi-skilled
occupations (to prevent abuse by firms of skilled apprenticeship), but now the idea was to
upgrade the training of semi-skilled occupations to increase their attractiveness, making
their training more not less like that of the skilled trades (Rathschlag 1972: 17, 29–31, 42). In
addition, as Rathschlag points out, there were somewhat different types of occupations at
stake. It was not so much, as in the 1920s, a matter of traditionally semi-skilled occupations
so defined when an increase in the division of labor split skilled work categories. At stake
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were quite specialized “niche” occupations that were simply not able to recruit sufficient
numbers of apprentices (Rathschlag 1972: 28–9).
29 At least in the case of Handwerk, it seems plausible to argue that Nazi policies resulted
in its overall modernization, eliminating the marginal producers and imposing new con-
ditions (for example, accounting, more standardized training) on those artisanal firms that
remained.
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played out between DAF and RWM, ultimately spoke to broader issues
concerning business autonomy and self-governance. The balance between
these two principles – corporate self-governance and state control – again
became an issue, though in a completely different form, in the post-World
War II period, to which I now turn.
30 East Germany is another story, one that cannot be told here; but see Jacoby (2000),
Culpepper (2003).
31 As he put it, “a new beginning was not attempted” (ein Neubeginn wurde nicht versucht)
(Pätzold 1991: 1).
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the overarching national legislation that unions had been calling for since
1919. This law created a new oversight structure for plant-based vocational
training consisting of tripartite boards at the national and state levels. This
was a significant innovation in that it created a comprehensive public frame-
work “above” the chamber system in which unions are full (parity) partici-
pants. There are also strong continuities, however, above all in that the most
important aspects of administration and supervision of plant-based train-
ing are still accomplished in the chambers. As Faulstich puts it, the 1969
law for the first time unified the rules governing apprentice training, but
did so “only in a way that legalized and therefore reinforced the previously
prevailing practice” (Faulstich 1977: 171).
The next three sections analyze the most important developments –
during the occupation, in the reconstruction period, and finally surround-
ing the 1969 Vocational Training Act – that, overall, exhibit a pattern of
reinforcement through bounded innovation. A final section considers the
extent to which contemporary changes in the political and market context
are undermining the deeper foundations on which the system has tradition-
ally rested.
The Occupation
Education policy in the three Western zones differed in the extent to which
the French, American, and British occupying forces tried to impose reforms.
In all three zones, however, the military governments were above all con-
cerned with basic education, so that in the area of vocational training, the
attention was mostly on vocational schools rather than in-plant training. All
the occupying powers moved swiftly to reopen public schools in Germany
after the surrender of May 1945, a move hampered by a lack of suitable
space and a dearth of (politically acceptable) teachers (Taylor 1981: 39–40).
It is quite striking how soon vocational schools were back in operation.
In the British zone, for example, by June 1946, 1,071 part-time vocational
schools were operating for 356,179 of an eligible total of 481,703 young
men and women (Taylor 1981: 43). The time frame was broadly similar in
the other zones, though the reopening of vocational schools in more remote
rural areas in the U.S. zone lagged somewhat behind (Taylor 1981: 56).
The policies of the French, British, and Americans shared some fea-
tures, above all, an almost exclusive emphasis on the school-based por-
tion of training, and within this emphasis, on denazification and civic re-
education. There was variation in the extent to which the occupying forces
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32 For a comprehensive account of the policies of the three Western occupying powers, see
Taylor (1981: Chapters 2–5). The French retained direct control over the education system
for the longest period (until 1949, with the founding of the Federal Republic of Germany).
The British and Americans handed responsibility over to German authorities earlier, at the
beginning of 1947 (Taylor 1981: 44–5, 101–2). The British were inclined to encourage the
Germans to take on responsibility themselves as early as possible, whereas the French and
Americans submitted rather detailed reform proposals, in the American case to merge sec-
ondary and full-time vocational schools, and in the French case to revamp the curriculum,
especially in German and European history.
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schools – was vested in the state governments rather than the national gov-
ernment (see, for example, Faulstich 1977: 147–8). This reform reflected
an interest among all the occupying powers in promoting a dispersion of
power.33 The German version of federalism, however, allowed for signifi-
cant coordination among the states, and in the area of education such coor-
dination was institutionalized through the formation in 1948 of a Standing
Conference of the [state-level] Ministries of Culture (Kultusministerkon-
ferenz, or KMK) across the three Western zones (Faulstich 1977: 152–3).
In 1950 the KMK turned its attention to the question of possible reforms
of the vocational school system, and appointed a committee to review this
issue. The committee – on which employer interests were especially well
represented34 – issued a report that mostly endorsed the basic structure of
the existing “dual” system, and did not see vocational schools as any kind
of acceptable substitute for enterprise-based training (Engel and Rosenthal
1970: 11; Abel 1968: 26; Bundesrepublik 1952: 264–6; Taylor 1981: 105–6,
141, 146–8; Stratmann and Schlösser 1990: 64).
Less attention was devoted to a serious consideration of reforms to the
system of firm-based training during the occupation period. Plant-based
apprenticeship more or less spontaneously re-surfaced after the war, recom-
mencing most quickly and thoroughly in the craft sector, as early as 1945
(Taylor 1981: 131). Given the widespread destruction of major industrial
areas, apprentices who had been employed there were advised to figure out
for themselves how to finish their training. In many cases this meant turning
to the craft sector, since handicraft firms were flush with orders connected
with reconstruction work of all varieties (Pätzold 1991: 2–3). Industry, too,
contributed to the revival of enterprise-based training as soon as feasible,
and plant-based training was re-instituted more or less “automatically,” un-
der the auspices of individual firms and their employer organizations and
chambers (Crusius 1982: 90).
One important reason why in-plant training was swiftly reopened with-
out much fundamental debate stemmed from widespread concerns about
youth unemployment in the immediate post-war years. The working pop-
ulation in Germany just after the war was overall on the older side due to
33 For the same reasons, state governments were also put in charge of radio and television, as
well as police (Katzenstein 1987).
34 The committee included six employer representatives, three education specialists, one rep-
resentative from the Ministry of Labor, one from the union confederation DGB, and one
member of the KMK, along with an academic chairperson (Taylor 1981: 141).
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war casualties. Very soon after the war, however, large numbers of youth
(the fruits of the Nazi population policy) were entering the labor markets.35
Apprenticeship provided a structure for German youth, and thus addressed
concerns on the part of the Western Allies, especially as the Cold War be-
gan, that hopelessness and disillusionment would make them susceptible to
the influence of political movements not just on the right but on the left as
well (Taylor 1981: 30).
German business, in this period always looking for ways to rehabilitate
its tarnished reputation, could bill itself as making efforts to deal with this
problem by re-establishing apprentice training programs quickly and un-
bureaucratically (BDI 1950; Crusius 1982: 90–1; Pätzold 1991: 2; Rohlfing
1949: 3–4).36 In October 1950 the Ministry of Labor reported 1,011,805
registered apprentices (in industry and Handwerk) (Arbeit 1950: 30). At
end of 1954, the Deutscher Industrie- und Handelskammertag (DIHT) re-
ported that about 660,000 apprentices were in training for various skilled
and semi-skilled occupations in industry, and that in the five years between
1949 and 1954, about 870,000 had already completed their training and
taken their exams (Stemme 1955: 7).
Apprenticeship brought with it the issue of regulation and oversight, and
here again employer and handicraft associations re-emerged and assumed
their traditional roles somewhat organically, as Abel puts it, “in the absence
of the state” (Abel 1968: 32; Crusius 1982: 89–91). All three occupying
powers had their doubts about the separation of technical and vocational
education from general education, and also about having the former un-
der the control and dominance of employers. The Allies were also united,
however, in their desire to break up concentrated powers of the state and to
establish decentralized nodes of authority. The re-establishment of business
self-government looked like a viable alternative. As Herrigel has pointed
out, employer representatives emphasized wherever possible the ways in
35 In 1948 the number of school leavers was six hundred thousand; a year later this was up
to seven hundred fifty thousand. The trend was expected to continue for the next several
years, and to peak in 1955 at eight hundred eighty thousand (Taylor 1981: 126). See also
the assessment of the system by the state governments in Bundesrepublik (1952: 259).
36 The rhetoric – if not the reality – was altruistic bordering on selfless. For example, in an
appeal to firms, the President of the Bundesverband der Deutschen Industrie, Fritz Berg,
asserted that “only serious and meaningful work can save people from despair and political
agitation [Verhetzung]” (BDI 1950: 144), and “[German youth] can and must be helped
through training and work. Firms and managers feel a deep moral responsibility toward
the next generation” (BDI 1950: 145).
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which their interests resonated with the values of the occupying powers
(particularly the Americans), underscoring the role that private capital and
employer self-government could play in limiting state power and guard-
ing against a return of authoritarianism (Herrigel 2000: 377). The head of
the DIHT department for vocational training, Adolf Kieslinger (who had
occupied basically the same position in the Weimar and the Nazi periods)
never tired of insisting that “vocational training is not the task of the state”
(die Berufsausbildung ist nicht Staatsaufgabe) (Kieslinger 1950: 146).37
The occupying forces did not stand in the way of the chambers resuming
a leading role in these areas; in many ways they promoted this development
(Greinert 1994: 50). The National Socialist regime had folded together
chambers of industry and commerce and the handicraft chambers, to form
more encompassing national economic chambers (Reichswirtschaftkammer).
After 1945 the Allies undid this forced integration, so that separate cham-
bers for the handicraft and industrial sectors were reconstituted. The
main questions under the occupation concerned official recognition of the
chambers and compulsory membership, as well as their precise responsibil-
ities with respect to training. In the British and French zones, the chambers
were reconstituted as institutions under public law, but the Americans – less
enthusiastic about compulsory membership – allowed them to be recon-
stituted as voluntary associations under private law (Kieslinger 1966: 12;
Walle 1963: 206–7).38
Handwerk faced the interesting challenge of wanting very much to
preserve some of the gains (for example, the major certificate of compe-
tency) that they had sought for decades but only achieved under the Nazis
(Ullmann 1988: 255–6). This involved convincing the occupying powers
37 Kieslinger had been active in vocational training issues through three regimes. In 1929 he
was employed in the Weimar labor department offices dealing with vocational training and
labor market politics. In 1937 he became head of the vocational training department of
the Arbeitsgemeinschaft der Industrie- und Handelskammern in der Reichswirtschaftskammer
(the Nazi era successor to the DIHT). After the war he became the head of the department
for vocational training at the IHK in Munich, before taking up the position (in 1950) of head
of the Department of Vocational Training and Labor Supply Questions [Berufsausbildung
und Arbeitskräftefragen] of the re-founded DIHT, a job he held until his retirement in
1965. I am grateful to the DIHT for providing this biographic information.
38 An exception is Berlin, where the chambers were forbidden entirely, and where the state
itself stepped in – though in consultation with economic organizations – to administer
vocational training. This is one reason why Berlin was the first to have explicit legislation on
vocational education (in 1951) of a scope and form (with significant union representation,
for example) that was not achieved elsewhere in Germany until 1969 (see, for example,
Crusius 1982: 91).
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that these practices were based on a long Handwerk tradition rather than
National Socialist principles, an argument that proved mostly successful.
Thus, in the fall of 1945 the HWK were still working in accordance with
National Socialist Handwerk law, and by November 1946 (French zone)
and December 1946 (British), the military governments passed decrees for
the Handwerk sector that put the chambers back in charge of regulating
apprentice training, under essentially the same terms as the Handwerk laws
of 1934 and 1935 (Rohlfing 1949: 4; Richter 1950: 53; Ullmann 1988: 256–
7).39 The same was true in practice for the American zone, though without
the explicit legal basis (Ullmann 1988: 256–7). There, a 1948 ordinance
stripped the guilds and Handwerk chambers of their official responsibil-
ities, but it allowed them to continue their previous functions as private
voluntary associations. As Richter notes, this was of no practical conse-
quence and was “hardly noticeable,” since the functions of the chambers
were recognized and followed anyway (Richter 1950: 53).
In industry, as well, the Allies generally did not interfere with the rather
rapid reconstitution of the chambers and indeed they had an interest in
their “quick reactivation” since they needed them to act as intermediaries
between the military administration and companies in rationing measures
(Ullmann 1988: 238). In the British and French zones the industry and
trade chambers were up and running in 1945 and officially reconstituted
along old lines (that is, along the lines of pre-1933 law) in 1946 and 1947
(Ullmann 1988: 238). In the American zone the chambers were civil pri-
vate institutions with voluntary membership and without any official para-
public responsibilities; the latter provision was almost immediately mod-
ified, however, to allow the chambers to resume traditional functions in
the area of apprentice training (Richter 1950: 55–6; Ullmann 1988: 238).
39 Thus, the chambers were again charged with promoting apprenticeship, regulating ap-
prenticeship according to the terms of the HWK, monitoring in-plant training, conduct-
ing journeymen exams, and so on. Anyone wishing to take an apprentice needed the
approval of the Labor Office (Arbeitsamt) but the handicraft guilds played a key role in
vetting such applications, making judgments about the quality of particular firms as train-
ing institutions (based on rankings from “very good” to “good” to “satisfactory” to “not
satisfactory”). No application from a firm designated as unsatisfactory would be accepted
by the Labor Office (Rohlfing 1949: 5). The right to revoke a Handwerker’s right to
train (on the basis of infractions against rules, exploitation of apprentices, and so on)
was also delegated to the handicraft chambers, either de jure (British zone) or de facto
(French and American zones) (Rohlfing 1949: 12). See also, Richter (1950: 45) on the more
or less spontaneous re-establishment of apprentice examinations through the Handwerk
chambers.
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they immediately took up again their functions – even if under a different set of
legal conditions in the American zone, and among other things began conducting
apprentice exams in the previously common way without any problem and with the
tacit tolerance (stillschweigende Duldung) of the military and state governments –
and this despite the fact that the chambers had no legal authority to actually do this.
(Richter 1950: 45)
The lack of specific legal grounding for chamber activities in the area
of vocational training reflected the ambiguities of the immediate post-war
legal environment. In 1949 and 1950, publications sponsored by cham-
bers and individual firms appeared that summarized and attempted to clar-
ify for employers the legal status on which apprenticeship now rested.
These documents invoked a wide range of ordinances stretching back to
the Gewerbeordnung of 1869 and the Handelsgesetzbuch of 1897, but com-
plemented and revised by subsequent legislation of other periods including
under the Nazis, to produce a mosaic obviously not entirely transparent
to contemporaries (see, for example, Rohlfing 1949; Richter 1950). These
legal ambiguities did not stop chambers from resuming their previous func-
tions. As early as 1945, the Düsseldorf IHK began again to register and ex-
amine apprentices, using the materials previously developed by DATSCH.
This chamber’s leaders wrote to all other IHKs in the British zone encour-
aging them to work together to counteract tendencies introduced under the
Nazis (for example, shortening of apprentice training time) to rejuvenate
apprenticeship (Düsseldorf 1945: 129). Beginning in 1949 the chambers of
industry and commerce began publishing data on the number of appren-
tices being trained in particular trades, as well as the aggregate results of
apprentice examinations (Stemme 1955: 5).40
Employer initiative in the absence of clear and uniform legal foundations
became an important part of the employer rhetoric in subsequent conflicts
with unions over regulation of firm-based training. The DIHT would later
(1955) refer back to post-war initiatives and stress that these first years after
the war showed “how even without a sufficient legal foundation, valuable
work can be accomplished not just for the country and the economy, but
also for individual citizens” (quote is from Stemme 1955: 7; see also Richter
40 The results were also published in yearly reports, 1947–49 together, then each year through
1954; the publication cited here (Stemme 1955) is a compilation of all of these.
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1950: 45). For the DIHT, the events of this period were taken as evidence of
the viability and value of employer self-governance (through the chamber
system) in the area of apprentice training (Stemme 1955: 7).41
Equally important, the first chambers of industry and commerce to
become operational after the war took the initiative to found overarch-
ing offices for coordinating vocational training at the national level, one
for industry (in operation starting July 1, 1947, in Dortmund) the other
for commerce (commencing operations a few months later, from a base
in Munich). After the formal refounding of the German Congress of In-
dustry and Trade (Deutscher Industrie- und Handelskammertag, or DIHT)42
these two offices were combined (in 1951), to form a unified Office for
Vocational Training of the Association of German Chambers of Indus-
try and Commerce (Arbeitsstelle für Berufserziehung des Deutschen Industrie-
und Handelstages) with headquarters in the capital city of Bonn. This en-
tire structure was subsequently (1953) put under the joint sponsorship
of all three of the principal employer associations (that is, incorporating
the Bundesverband der Deutschen Industrie (BDI) and Bundesvereinigung der
Deutschen Arbeitgeberverbände (BDA), although the day-to-day administra-
tion and legal oversight stayed with DIHT), at which point it was re-
named the Office for Enterprise-Based Vocational Training (Arbeitsstelle für
betriebliche Berufsausbildung or ABB) (Berufsausbildung 1958: 7–8; Greinert
1994: 50).
From its inception, and in its earliest post-war incarnations the ABB saw
its role as a direct continuation of the work of DATSCH and its successor,
the Reichsinstitut für Berufsausbildung. Pre-existing training profiles and
guidelines continued to be used, and the chambers only accepted apprentice
contracts based on such “recognized” skilled and semi-skilled occupations
(Pätzold 1991: 7–8).43 As early as 1947 the Arbeitsstelle resumed the work
of defining and updating occupational profiles for industry, establishing
guidelines for training for the various trades, providing materials regarding
41 Employers would continue through the 1950s to appeal to the principle of subsidiarity in
this area, pointing out (misleadingly, as the present analysis shows) that the strong and highly
successful system of enterprise-based training was something that employers historically
had created without the help of the state (ohne dass der Staat mitgewirkt hat) (Kieslinger
1950: 146).
42 In 1949, after the founding of the Federal Republic.
43 In Handwerk, too, a 1949 publication notes that the Fachlichen Vorschriften zur Regelung
des Lehrlingswesens are the “authoritative” materials governing the conduct of training
(Rohlfing 1949: 27).
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44 See also Kieslinger (1960: 45–56) for a complete elaboration of the precise role of the
chambers in all aspects of apprentice training, which includes among others (a) developing
new training professions as these are made necessary by market or technological changes,
(b) imposing uniform conditions on the terms of apprentice contract for particular oc-
cupations, (c) keeping apprentice rolls and monitoring firm training (including deny-
ing apprentice registration to firms deemed unqualified or unsuited to such training),
(d) assisting and promoting enterprise-based training through the supply of training mate-
rials and other supports, and (e) presiding over examination of apprentices by appointing
the relevant committees and monitoring results.
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all the important regulatory functions, even though official recognition for
the ordinances they produced required approval by the Federal minister
in charge of the economic area in question – for industry, commerce, and
the crafts this was the Ministry of Economics and for occupations in agri-
culture, it was the Federal Minister of Food, Agriculture, and Forestry
(Münch 1991: 35). Union representatives were for the first time explicitly
and formally allowed to participate in the review of training ordinances
prior to their official adoption through the Ministry.45 It should be noted
however, that the role of both state and union in this process was largely pro
forma, and there is really no particular evidence that the influence of either
mattered significantly with respect to the substance of these ordinances.
Reconstruction
By the time of the founding of the Federal Republic (1949) and the instal-
lation of its first government under the conservative Chancellor Konrad
Adenauer, the enterprise-based part of the dual system had been re-
established on the basis of employer self-governance, with distant support-
ing roles assigned to both the state and the unions. Occupational profiles
and training materials developed before the war were picked up again as the
basis for in-plant training, and the chambers took up the role traditionally
played by DATSCH and the Reichsinstitut für Berufsausbildung in updating,
rationalizing, and disseminating training materials and guidelines. With
good reason, Pätzold refers to developments in the reconstruction pe-
riod as a “re-anchoring of traditional training structures” (Neubefestigung
traditioneller Ausbildungsstrukturen) (Pätzold 1991: 2).
The main debates of the 1950s and 1960s regarding plant-based train-
ing all turned on the same basic line of cleavage. Employers and their
political allies defended the principle of employer self-governance (and the
45 This innovation goes back to policies introduced by the British military government. In
1946, the British representative for vocational training in the Central Office for the Econ-
omy (Zentralamt für Wirtschaft) issued a directive for the “necessary uniformity in vo-
cational training for youth in industry.” According to this decree, recognition, changes,
or elimination of skilled and semi-skilled occupations, as well as approval of occupational
profiles, training establishments, and plants, had to be submitted for review to the legal
representatives of the trades (this would have been the ABB or the craft chambers) and
the unions. These rules were transferred to the unified (British-American) economic zone
in 1948 and adopted and applied generally after the founding of the Federal Republic of
Germany (FRG) (Pätzold 1991: 7).
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46 The idea being that the state could only intervene when business and its self-government
institutions were not fulfilling their tasks satisfactorily (Lipsmeier 1998: 450).
47 For a discussion of the positions taken by employers and unions in debates on vocational
training, see Faulstich (1977: 108–43), Taylor (1981: 130–40), Kell (1970).
48 As seen in Chapter 2, this is something never fully clarified in the Weimar years, though
in the late 1920s court decisions specifically allowed apprentice compensation to be dealt
with in collective bargaining – without, however, really mandating this. Under the Nazi
regime, apprenticeship was defined as a pure educational relationship.
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49 The Labor Ministry had jurisdiction over occupational counseling for youth and labor
exchange functions including matching apprentices to apprentice slots, but responsibility
for enterprise-based training lay with the Economics Ministry (Taylor 1981: 134).
50 For the DIHT position, see Kieslinger (1950: 146–7).
51 The unions were calling for changes, but their demands for a vocational training law and
increased state oversight were pitched at the level of governance and regulation, not the
core framework of plant-based training itself. As Crusius notes, unions may have held back
from demands for more significant changes in the 1940s and early 1950s due to acute
apprenticeship gaps. They only began pressing these points later when full employment
was restored (Crusius 1982: 115).
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52 The managing director was Erwin Krause, head of the Office for Vocational Education of
the German Industry and Trade Congress (Arbeitsstelle für Berufserziehung des Deutschen
Industrie- und Handelstages). The number of members in the group grew over time from 16
to 40. On this whole episode, see especially Abel (1968: 23–4) and Stratmann and Schlösser
(1990: 61–2), on which I draw here.
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53 A 1961 statement by the Handwerk committee of the metalworkers union (IG Metall)
similarly makes a number of suggestions for improving Handwerk training, but all are
completely within the logic of the existing system – calling, for example, for greater coop-
eration between the Handwerk chambers, the unions, the trade schools and other parties,
and arguing against Handwerk’s proposals to increase the training periods for apprentices
to make up for time lost because of the compliance of firms with the new Youth Protection
Law (Pätzold 1991: 106).
54 As Crusius emphasizes, vocational training in particular was not a major focal point for the
unions in the early postwar years. The subject did not come up at all at the DGB’s founding
congress in 1949 (Crusius 1982: 90, 95).
255
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256
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59 The terms under which artisanal organizations (HWK and Innungen) perform their duties
in the area of vocational training, including journeyman representation, as of 1960, are laid
out in Raspe (1960).
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258
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63 This argument, at least in the version elaborated by Walle, includes repeated references to
bureaucratization and increased rigidity through Gleichschaltung – a highly charged term
in Germany if there ever was one (Walle 1963: 377).
259
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64 The claims about costs were somewhat exaggerated, since the state subsidizes vocational
training through its support of the mandatory public vocational schools.
65 In this sense and as Stratmann points out, many elements of the unions’ demands from the
1919 Nürnberg congress ultimately made their way into the legislation of 1969 (Stratmann
1990: 40).
66 This is drawn from Ralf and Schlösser (1994: 112–13). But see also Faulstich (1977: 171–4),
Helfert (1970b), or Taylor (1981: 210–13) for a summary of the structure of control and
oversight over vocational training after the 1969 law.
67 Subsequent legislation in 1976 converted this into the current Federal Institute for Voca-
tional Training (Bundesinstitut für Berufsbildung, or BIBB).
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official regulations and curricula (establishing the skill content and length
of apprenticeship for particular occupations) – and made recommendations
to the relevant ministries which officially issue the directives that govern
training (Bildungsforschung 1979: 245; Streeck et al. 1987: 13).68 At the
state level, the law provides for the establishment of vocational training
committees composed of equal numbers of representatives from employ-
ers, unions, and the state government. These committees are charged with
coordinating between the school and in-plant components of training, and
collaborating with the other states to ensure uniformity nationwide.
Even under this new regulatory framework, however, some of the most
important functions in the supervision and monitoring of firm-based train-
ing are still accomplished through the chambers. Thus, at the district level,
the law calls for the regulation of vocational training – for example, supervi-
sion of training and administration of exams – through special committees
within the relevant chambers (HWK, IHK). The new law set the com-
position of the committees at six each for employers and employees. Six
representatives of vocational schools sit on these committees, but in an
advisory role only. The committees have to be consulted on regulations
concerning all aspects of in-plant training, although any policy changes
that affect the costs of training have to be ratified by the general assem-
bly of the chamber (where, in industry, unions are not represented).69 In
addition, the chambers (alone) continue to perform many key monitoring
functions, including deciding on the suitability of particular firms to pro-
vide training and considering applications from firms to extend or reduce
training times for particular apprentices (Streeck et al. 1987: 28).
Regarding the issue of portfolios and ministerial jurisdiction, a compli-
cated inter-ministerial compromise was worked out in which the Economics
Ministry remained in charge of approving training ordinances, but its work
68 The ABB was formally disbanded in 1971, after its functions had been assumed by the
BBF under the terms of the 1969 law. Subsequent legislation (in 1976) transferred all these
responsibilities to the current Federal Institute for Vocational Training (Bundesinstitut für
Berufsbildung, or BIBB) (Bunk 1979: 103; Pätzold 1991: 8; Berufsausbildung 1958).
69 In the IHK there is no labor representation at all in the general assembly, in handicraft
chambers a third of the seats are still reserved for journeymen. Craft training remained un-
der the jurisdiction of the HWK. By last minute intervention by the CDU/CSU, Handwerk
training was regulated a bit differently (Adam 1979: 174) and basically the relevant sections
of the HwO were carried over and adapted to the third part of the law (Engel and Rosenthal
1970: 101; Taylor 1981: 295).
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relied on cooperation with the Labor Ministry.70 Further training (that is,
beyond initial apprenticeship) was put under the Labor Ministry but relying
on the Economics Ministry’s consent. The Labor Ministry was given re-
sponsibility for coordinating vocational training matters across ministries
and it also acts as the monitoring agency for the new Federal Institute for
Vocational Education Research (Engel and Rosenthal 1970: 100–3). A few
years later (1972), all these responsibilities were put under the jurisdiction
of the Federal Ministry for Science and Research (Bundesministerium für
Wissenschaft und Forschung).
The 1969 BBiG clearly represented some important changes. Before
the law was passed, training was solely the province of the chambers
(IHK and HWK) and therefore governed through chamber ordinances
(Kammerrecht). An essential element of the reform was to take exclu-
sive control out of the hands of the chambers and vest it instead in the
supervisory committees described above (with parity representation for
unions). The 1969 law thus brought greater unity to the previously dis-
parate legal framework governing apprentice training, and gave unions
a stronger voice in the overarching regulatory functions surrounding
the definition and elaboration of training regulations and occupational
certifications.71
Significant as these changes were, they should not obscure the high de-
gree of continuity in the apparatus for the day-to-day regulation and moni-
toring of firm-based training. Crucial administrative and supervisory func-
tions are still performed by the chambers, which continue to be the key
interface between the federally established guidelines and the training firms
themselves. Although unions enjoy representation rights in the chamber
committees on vocational training, there are limits to the role they play
there – through the provisions that require policy changes affecting financ-
ing to come before the chambers’ full assembly (effectively, an employer
veto point since unions have no representation there), and through the
chambers’ sole and autonomous rights to monitor in-plant training and to
approve as competent firms that wish to train. As Crouch, Finegold, and
70 The sharing of responsibilities worked out between the Economics and Labor Ministries
is extremely complicated. It is explicated in Engel and Rosenthal (1970: 101, fn. 168).
71 The role of the unions in the new system is by far more important than that of the state,
with the latter operating more as a rubber stamp. As Streeck and colleagues point out, the
“federal government makes the overwhelming majority of decisions on vocational training
only after the union and employer representatives in the committees of the BIBB have
given their consent” (Streeck et al. 1987: 13; see also Engel and Rosenthal 1970: 13).
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Sako point out, trade unions in Germany continue to have a rather “limited
formal role,” and to the extent that they can exercise influence, it is infor-
mally and through works councils who can “maintain their own watch on
the quality of training being provided by a firm” (Crouch, Finegold, and
Sako 1999: 144).72
The 1969 legislation introduced important innovations – above all in the
national-level regulatory superstructure for vocational training. As Taylor
points out, however, “by locating the most crucial of all functions in an em-
ployer organisation, the chamber of trade . . . the Federal Parliament had
confirmed its faith in the Wirtschaft’s ability successfully to control voca-
tional training for the benefit of the nation in the future” (Taylor 1981:
213; see also Helfert 1970a: 153; Lipsmeier 1998: 450–1). In light of the
significant retained powers of the chambers, it comes as little surprise that
the DIHT – despite expressed regrets over the “complicated” ministerial
arrangements and the new layers of bureaucracy and committees – was
nonetheless able to see in this legislation a codification of “the structure and
the order of the [existing] system, both of which are the result of decades
of responsible and flexible work on the part of business and its chambers,
and both developed in the law-free space [gesetzesfreien Raum] of business
self-governance” (DIHT 1970: 96).
Organized labor regretted and protested loudly against their limited
codetermination rights (especially at the chamber level), blaming the par-
ticular coalition (CDU/SPD) that presided over the passage of the law.
However, the outcome at some level also reflected the fact that the unions
had consistently articulated their goals in a way that confirmed and built
around (rather than called into question) many of the foundational fea-
tures of the existing system, not least the continued clear subordination of
school-based to plant-based vocational training. Baethge emphasizes the
deeply “pragmatic” nature of union goals in the area of vocational train-
ing. He wonders, even if the unions achieved more of their goals, if this
would do anything more than “minimize the crassest excesses” of the ex-
isting system – a contribution, clearly, but hardly a radical alternative to it
(Baethge 1970: 170–2; see also Helfert 1970a: 154).
72 Some of this was covered in the 1972 Works Constitution Act, and the new (2001) Works
Constitution Act provides additional levers (see discussion below). As Schömann points
out, however, works councils have only information and consultative rights, and the extent
to which this translates into real influence depends very much on the initiative and strength
of the plant labor representatives (Schömann 2001: 17).
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73 This account of the reform initiatives (and their fate) under the Social Democratic govern-
ments of the 1970s relies on Taylor (1981: Chapters 10 and especially 11).
74 For example, many proposals in this period sought to reform the three separate tracks
of Hauptschule, Realschule, and Gymnasium, either to eliminate the tracks entirely or to
build bridges across them (zweiter Bildungsweg, for example).
75 Dohnanyi was Minister from 1972–1974. The idea was for state governments to assume ju-
risdiction over all aspects of vocational education, including the control and administration
of in-plant training, accreditation and control of training premises, preparation of training
curricula, and administration of exams (Taylor 1981: 255).
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76 The BIBB has a number of other functions; it was charged, for example, with improving
coordination between in-plant training schedules and vocational school curricula.
77 An overhang was deemed necessary to ensure apprentices a choice of trades.
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provisions were strongly opposed by business and the law was struck down
by the Supreme Court in 1980 (on grounds that the Bundesrat also needed
to pass on the legislation (see Taylor 1981: 269–74). The 1981 law that
replaced it no longer contained the controversial financing provision.
More important and more telling than the public debates, after 1975
employers undertook strong efforts on their own initiative to keep the levy
issue at bay.78 In an act of supreme coordination and power on the part of
firms and especially their employers’ associations, industry orchestrated a
voluntary increase in the number of apprentice slots offered.79 As Baethge
notes, “All training areas increased the number of training spots offered
(measured in the number of training contracts signed) continuously and
significantly” in the decade between 1976 and 1986, with industry alone
increasing its apprentice slots by 62%, from 81,734 (in 1975) to 132,560 (in
1985) (Baethge 1999: 4). Clearly employers opposed the idea of levies, but
as Baethge notes, labor leaders, too, were very sensitive to arguments that
levies might be counterproductive and could bring perverse effects – for
example, if training firms reduced apprentice slots in anticipation (Baethge
1999: 6).80
The 1980s saw continued adaptation of the content of vocational training
to changing economic conditions based on a high degree of cooperation
between unions and employers. A good example of this is the complete
revamping of the occupational profiles of the entire metalworking industry
by the union and employers, accomplished in 1984 in a completely con-
sensual manner despite the fact that this took place against the backdrop
of the biggest strike in that industry in the postwar period (Streeck et al.
78 The exception that proves the rule is the construction industry (see Streeck 1983: 46–
53, on which this is based). In this case, the employers’ association – together with the
union – responded to a particularly serious training crisis in the early 1970s by negotiating
a collective agreement (later declared universally binding for the industry as a whole by
the government) that imposed a training levy on all firms in the sector. This solution was
specifically embraced and sold politically as an alternative to the state levy being deliberated
at that time. Both union and employers devised and defended the collectively bargained
levy as a sign of continuing “joint responsibility” and as fully in line with the subsidiarity
principle traditionally invoked to keep the state out (Streeck 1983: 57; also Soskice 1994:
35).
79 My account here draws on Baethge (1999).
80 The prospect of a levy has been raised several times since then, and in fact the current
Red-Green coalition is considering such a measure again. The idea is controversial within
the S.P.D., however, and even its advocates (including Chancellor Schröder) would still
prefer a private-sector solution if possible (Der Spiegel, May 5, 2003: especially 105–6; Welt
am Sonntag, February 15, 2004: 1; Süddeutsche Zeitung, February 14–15, 2004: 1).
266
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1987: 3–4).81 As Streeck and his colleagues note, the sometimes conflictual
rhetoric should not obscure the deep commitment of both employers and
unions to the vocational training system at that time:
trade unions and employers are far apart when it comes to the question of how train-
ing should be financed and to what extent individual employers providing training
should be subject to external supervision. . . . But the public debate hides the fact
that neither side doubts the principle that each school leaver should have access
to high quality vocational training, and that training profiles should be continually
upgraded and modernized. While both sides find the existing system wanting in
important respects, neither finds it wanting enough to be willing to let it fall into
disuse or decay. (Streeck et al. 1987: 4)
81 The reorganization reduced the number of recognized trades dramatically, to produce over-
all more multifaceted occupations of the sort increasingly called for to deal with new produc-
tion methods. These developments are just one example of a more overarching pattern of
ongoing incremental changes, mostly negotiated by the social partners, to adapt the system
to ongoing changes in the technological and market environment. As Crouch, Finegold,
and Sako note, “In the 1950s a total of 900 occupations had formal VET [vocational ed-
ucation and training] preparations. By 1970 this had been reduced to 500. . . . By 1992 it
was down to 377, including the addition of new occupations in services and high-tech
sectors” (Crouch, Finegold, and Sako 1999: 144). As they also note, most such revisions
and combinations of previously separate trades were undertaken in the interests of overall
broader and more “polyvalent” skills, so that workers could be deployed more flexibly in
new production arrangements, group work, and the like.
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in Handwerk firms (being accomplished on the job and mostly during pro-
duction lulls), the costs of training have in the past been very small, and
often negative, since these firms benefit from the availability of a flexible
extra hand in production (Wagner 1997; see also Soskice 1994; Bellmann
and Neubäumer 2001: 191–2; Alewell and Richter 2001; Wagner 1999).82
For these reasons, as Crouch and colleagues point out, even if large firms
cut back on apprenticeship in periods of economic downturn, Handwerk
firms have traditionally been able to pick up the slack (Crouch, Finegold,
and Sako 1999: 142).
A second mechanism that has traditionally stabilized apprenticeship is
the system for cost sharing in which apprentices bear some of the costs of
training with training firms (see the theoretical discussion in Chapter 1).83
Although unions in Germany negotiate for apprentices they accept that
such wages must be kept low in order to encourage continuing training
(Crouch, Finegold, and Sako 1999: 142; Soskice 1991; Streeck et al. 1987:
23). Soskice notes that the wages of unskilled workers in Germany are
three to four times higher than apprentice wages (Soskice 1994: 35, 41).
Apprentices agree to defer gratification with respect to income during the
apprentice period so long as such training continues to serve as a ticket to
success in the labor market generally, as an entry point to higher-paid and
more secure employment (Soskice 1994: 35, 41, 53–5). Such has tradition-
ally been the case for apprentices, and especially for apprenticeships served
in large and dynamic firms. Drawing on a 1985 sample, Soskice found that
large firms retained a very high proportion of the apprentices they trained,
between 80 and 90% (and for firms employing more than a thousand work-
ers, 87%) (Soskice 1994: 35, 37). This sets in motion a healthy, virtuous
cycle of competition among firms for the most attractive apprentices, which
encourages young people to do their best in school (Soskice 1994: 54–5).
Finally, and not least, the system of corporatism and strong associations,
compulsory chambers and also voluntary trade and employer associations,
has traditionally served as a crucial stabilizing mechanism. As the example
82 The Bundesinstitut für Berufsbildung occasionally conducts surveys to determine the costs
of training, including differences in net training costs in Handwerk and industry and by
firm size and other variables (see, for example Noll et al. 1983: iv–v). Soskice argues
that these statistical analyses are likely to overstate the costs of training for small firms.
The calculations on which the statistics are based are accurate for larger companies, but
for small ones they systematically overestimate the costs and underestimate the returns of
apprenticeship (Soskice 1994: 52; see also Richter 2000: 236–7).
83 As does the state, through its funding of public vocational schools.
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84 For a very useful and comprehensive analysis of the current situation see especially
Culpepper (2003; 1999; also Green and Sakamoto 2001: 80–5). Culpepper’s analyses paint
a guardedly optimistic picture (on balance, perhaps, more optimistic than mine), also ac-
knowledging, however, the problematic trends cited below. See also Brown, Green, and
Lauder (2001: 148–51) for a discussion of contemporary problems.
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85 However, Finegold and Wagner draw a conclusion different from that of Herrigel, with
Herrigel arguing that Germany needs to move away from the traditional apprentice system
and Finegold and Wagner arguing that adjustment will require building on the system’s tra-
ditional strengths and “making greater use of the broad base of skills” it provides (Finegold
and Wagner 1997: 229–30).
86 A comparative study of training in Britain, France, and Germany (focusing on the metal-
working industry, conducted in 1992) found that German firms were more heavily involved
in initial apprentice training than French and British firms, but lagged behind the other
two in continuing training (Backes-Gellner 1995: 15).
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mostly laissez faire and very much up to the individual firms to construct
and manage as they like. Most of it is firm-specific (Crouch, Finegold, and
Sako 1999: 146), and when certificates are devised and awarded it is not
clear what they mean (Sauter 1996: 126). The relative underdevelopment
of continuing vocational training is not a new problem, but the effects of
this deficit may be magnified in the current period. Particularly in rapidly
evolving sectors such as information technologies and related industries,
ongoing skill development is simply essential to keep pace with production
technologies. “Initial vocational training alone is no longer a guarantee
of job security, of remaining qualified in one’s occupation or profession,
or of developing one’s abilities. Initial vocational training is becoming the
prerequisite for successful continuing training” (Sauter 1996: 113).
Exacerbating these problems is increased international competition and
long-term economic stagnation in Germany. A growing number of firms
have become extremely cost conscious, leading to an overall reduction in
training (Crouch, Finegold, and Sako 1999: 143; Wagner 1999). Since
the mid-1980s the supply of apprentice slots in Western Germany has
slumped (with the exception of 1989 and 1990). The high point (in 1984)
was 726,786, dropping to a low (in 1996) of 483,165, before recovering
slightly by 1998 to 506,499. Overall, the period between 1980 and 1998
saw a net reduction of apprentice slots by 27% (Alewell and Richter 2001:
144–5, 172 contain the relevant figures and tables). Although many authors
emphasize that there is still an overall balance in the supply of apprentice
slots and demand for them,87 the new equilibrium has settled at a decidedly
lower level. Leaving aside Eastern Germany (where the situation is much
more critical), West German firms are offering a hundred thousand fewer
apprentice places than they did 20 years ago, and two hundred thousand
fewer than they did a decade ago (Culpepper 1999: 49).
Large firms traditionally trained because they expected to keep the great
majority of the apprentices they took, making it economically rational for
them to make the investment in the first place (Soskice 1994). Now, how-
ever, large firms are if anything looking to shrink their workforces, with im-
plications for both their overall training effort and their record for retention.
Longitudinal data are needed here, but if we compare Soskice’s retention
87 Alewell and Richter (2001) and Culpepper (1999) both emphasize this point. A part of
my argument is that apprenticeship may be becoming less attractive to youth (see below),
and thus a decline in both supply and demand would be relevant to the argument I am
constructing here.
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figures based on 1985 data with more recent (1998) data, we find that the
retention rate of large firms, although still high, is significantly lower than
before. Whereas Soskice’s 1985 data suggest an average retention rate of
87% among large (over a thousand employees) firms (Soskice 1994: 37),
Bellmann and Neubäumer’s 1998 survey data reveal an average retention
rate for firms with over two thousand employees of 77.5%, and for firms
with a thousand to two thousand employees of just 71.3% (Bellmann and
Neubäumer 2001: 198). Maybe more tellingly, Bellmann and Neubäumer
record an increase in the propensity of firms to hire former apprentices on
a limited-contract (befristete ) basis (Bellmann and Neubäumer 2001: 200).
This is probably related to some recent collective bargains that require
firms to continue to employ apprentices after completion of their train-
ing (see, especially, Bispinck et al.). But even if so, the short-term nature
of the contracts and the motives (collective contracts and union pressure)
may be as much an indication of a breakdown of traditional self-regulatory
mechanisms as their continued healthy functioning.
Reductions in the number of apprentices taken by large firms in the face
of economic downturn is perfectly in line with past patterns. The differ-
ence is, however, that previous regulatory mechanisms are not “kicking in.”
Wagner (1999) has argued that the German system was “finely balanced”
until 1991, with smaller firms at around the break-even point on the cost
of apprenticeship, and larger firms having other reasons to think that the
costs of training were equal to or outweighed by the benefits. She docu-
ments a number of trends that have led to overall higher costs and there-
fore threaten to upset that balance, not only increased costs due to reduced
working times and increased apprentice wages, but also costs associated with
upgrading and broadening apprenticeship training in recent years.88 Cost
considerations have arguably become more important than ever to small
and medium-sized industrial producers in key industries such as metal-
working, where recent collective bargains have produced wage deals that
large firms can tolerate but that small and medium-sized firms are finding
they cannot afford.89
88 For instance, the reorganization of the metalworking occupations means that companies
have to devote one and a half years to general training, which cuts into the contribution of
apprentices to production in smaller firms. In addition, there has been an overall increase
in vocational school attendance since 1980, fully in line with the increased need for more
theoretical training but also involving additional costs for firms who have to pay the release
time (Wagner 1999).
89 The problem is that large firms, which have traditionally shouldered the burden of industrial
conflict that is sometimes necessary to secure a moderate wage deal, have become conflict
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averse in the extreme. Large firms have off-shored a great deal of production to lower
wage countries abroad and decreased employment domestically. The resulting lower labor
costs have allowed large firms to agree to relatively generous contracts (in the interests of
preserving labor peace), but this has produced a situation in which contracts come closer
than ever before to exhausting the ability of the larger firms to pay – thus squeezing small
and medium-sized producers (Thelen and Kume 1999; Thelen and van Wijnbergen 2003).
90 A viable and perhaps increasingly attractive alternative could be a more segmentalist ap-
proach (see Chapter 1). Although Germany still lags behind other countries in continuing
firm-based training, the number of workers involved in such programs has “soared” over
the last decade (Sauter 1996: 116). German firms appear less inclined than before to take
apprentices on within the context of the traditional system (which requires them to train
in particular ways and to uniform standards), and more inclined to invest in continuing
training, which is not regulated in the same way or to anywhere near the same extent. See
also Crouch, Finegold, and Sako (1999: 146).
91 I am indebted to Wolfgang Streeck for emphasizing the importance of this.
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direction of more general skills and more theoretical training (Soskice 2003;
Brown, Green, and Lauder 2001: 83–4). Some such adaptations have been
undertaken, for example, the trend toward more general occupational pro-
files and the increase in vocational school attendance (see footnotes 81 and
88). In some sectors, the need for more general and more theoretical skills
has also been accompanied by a softening of the line between traditional ap-
prenticeship and higher education (Brown, Green, and Lauder 2001: 82–4).
In the banking sector, for example, Quack and colleagues note a trend
among German banks toward “developing stronger links between the sys-
tem of higher education and the banks, as well as between the universities
and the dual system” (Quack, O’Reilly, and Hildebrandt 1995: 781, 782,
figure 3).
These developments are in some ways powerful testimony to the adapt-
ability of the German system, and there are many good reasons to promote
them further (Culpepper 1999; Brown, Green, and Lauder 2001: 82–5).
It should be clear, however, that this route is fraught with dilemmas and
possible unanticipated and unwanted consequences. At the most basic level,
rising standards and more general occupational profiles, although clearly
necessary, have not come free but have come bundled with increased costs
to firms (Wagner 1999). But more generally, the broader and especially
the more theoretical the educational requirements for new skills become,
the less well suited firms are to do the training. Companies may well, and
understandably, prefer to offload their problems and costs onto the state
or onto apprentices themselves (that is, pointing toward an overall more
“liberal” model very much in line with much of the current rhetoric in
German business circles).
It already appears that firms (even small, medium-sized, and handicraft
firms) are increasingly inclined to recruit new workers from among ap-
plicants holding university degrees (Berger, Brandes, and Walden 2000:
79–91). This is a general trend, especially pronounced in the service sector,
which accounts for an ever-increasing proportion of employment.92 Berger
and colleagues write of increasing competition between job applicants from
the traditional vocational training track and those with technical-college
and university degrees. Although they note that one cannot yet talk of a
92 The service sector has always been a weak spot in the traditional system, since fewer certifi-
cates were offered in services and because it is not clear that training in that sector produces
the same kind of comparative advantage associated with diversified quality production in
manufacturing (Culpepper 1999: 56; Soskice 2003).
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Contemporary Developments
could they question (and resent) their investment in worker skills that are
quite portable. In light of heavy subsidies to Eastern firms, Western firms
may well begin to ask themselves why they should continue to bear these
costs ( Jacoby 2000).93
As Baethge notes, the situation since the 1990s shares only a superfi-
cial similarity with previous crises. Whereas the problem of a shortage of
apprenticeships in the 1970s was mostly a problem of an imbalance in the
market for apprenticeship, the problems now may be more structural than
cyclical (Baethge 1999). More important, Baethge makes the point that po-
litically, things have been turned on their head. Whereas in the past unions
were more likely than employers to criticize some aspects of the system, to-
day they are ardent defenders. Meanwhile, a growing number of employers
have become more skeptical, and significant numbers of them are simply
walking away.
Long-time observers of the system have begun to talk of a “serious threat
to the vocational training system” as employers’ interest in it is declining
(Stratmann 1994: 25). As the analysis in this book should have made clear,
employers are absolutely central actors in the history, and therefore also
vital to the future of the German vocational training system – a system
which after all rests on their voluntarily taking apprentices. Since no one
can force German firms to train, there can be no plant-based apprentice
system if employers defect in large numbers. Therefore, when faced with
the prospect of a serious shortfall in apprentice slots, Chancellor Gerhard
Schröder began by exhorting firms to fulfill their “elementary obligation”
to give youth a chance to acquire skills (Der Spiegel, May 5, 2003: 105). His
subsequent resort to the idea of a government-imposed training levy is a
signal of how serious the training problem has become (Welt am Sonntag,
February 15, 2004: 1; Süddeutsche Zeitung, February 14–15, 2004: 1).
It would be premature to announce the demise of Germany’s dual sys-
tem of apprentice training; many authors have done so in the past only
to see the system survive and thrive (Konietzka and Lempert 1998). The
point here is not so much its imminent demise or continuing function; it
is, rather, that for institutions to survive they cannot stand still. They must
be constantly adapted to changes in the social, market, and political en-
vironment.94 The staying power of the German system therefore hinges
93 With thanks to Martin Behrens and Wolfgang Streeck for this insight.
94 As this book goes to press, the Schröder government has just pushed through a significant
reform in the handicraft sector. The reform is part of a broader set of measures, authored
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Contemporary Developments
very much on whether or not the problems and trends identified above are
taken up by the relevant actors, particularly employers, and whether they
can muster the collective capacities to undertake the reforms necessary to
keep individual firms invested (and investing) in the system.
by the Minister of Labor and Economics, Wolfgang Clement, aimed at easing employment
relations to counter continuing high unemployment. The new legislation makes it possible
for skilled journeymen in certain Handwerk trades to open independent businesses with-
out having achieved “master” status – the latter traditionally requiring not just training and
experience beyond the apprenticeship, but also successful completion of the master exam.
Advocates of the reform saw this as an overdue adaptation of the traditional system that
could bolster training by responding to the decline in the number of master exams being
taken (and the associated decline in training slots for apprentices). Opponents (representa-
tives of Handwerk, but also opposition CDU/CSU politicians), by contrast, argued that the
reform would have a deleterious effect on training by reducing incentives for individuals
to acquire additional skills (Hamburger Abendblatt, May 30, 2003; Frankfurter Allgemeine
Zeitung, November 28, 2003). The law passed in a compromise form (fewer trades affected
than originally envisioned) and it remains to be seen what impact any of this will have on
training in the handicraft sector.
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This chapter summarizes the main empirical findings of the analysis, both
the cross-national and the longitudinal dimensions, and relates these find-
ings to several major theoretical debates in the literature. The analysis of
cross-national differences in the institutions governing in-plant training and
the over-time analysis tracking the evolution of the German system over
a longer period speak to debates in the political–economic literature on
“varieties of capitalism” concerning institutional origins and institutional
complementarities. Moreover, the analysis here provides insights into a
broader literature in political science concerning issues of institutional re-
production, institutional change, and path dependence in politics.
1 Note well that these firms by no means always got what they initially wanted. As we have
seen, they mostly could not achieve their goals on their own steam. The extent to which
their preferred options prevailed was a matter of the coalitions they did (or did not) forge
with other groups with complementary interests. In many cases, the strategies to which
I refer here are compensatory strategies to deal with failure to achieve a first preferred
option.
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Cross-National Comparisons
Electric were all engaged in efforts to develop their own in-plant capacities
for skill formation and combining these with various policies designed to
co-opt workers and exclude unions. From then on, however, trajectories di-
verged as these firms adapted their strategies to the particular constellation
of incentives and constraints they faced in their separate countries.
They looked out on very different political and economic landscapes.
Of crucial importance to “modern” industry, it turns out, was the fate
of “traditional” associations of skilled craftsmen, customary guardians of
apprenticeship and holders of the skills these firms needed. In Germany
and Japan, state policy toward the artisanal sector sharpened the line
between independent master artisans and skilled workers in industry. Eco-
nomic and political conditions in Britain and the United States, by con-
trast, if anything contributed to blurring the boundaries between these
two groups (Kocka 1986a: 307–16; Kocka 1986b). These differences were
important in determining whether early unions were drawn to or pre-
vented from organizing around craft-control strategies – and by extension
affecting whether apprenticeship would be contested across the class divide
in industry. The fate of the traditional artisanal sector determined what
sorts of problems (and opportunities) the leading firms in skill-dependent
industries faced, influencing the strategies they developed to deal with
them.
In Germany, the state actively organized the artisanal sector and granted
it monopoly rights to certify skills. This framework for certification and
monitoring stabilized a system of in-plant training that had been sliding to-
ward exploitation of cheap child labor. The stabilization of apprenticeship
in the artisanal sector meant that dominant producers in skill-intensive in-
dustries like machine building could count on a relatively steady stream of
certified skilled workers, since small artisanal shops were not necessarily in-
terested in holding on to the workers they had trained. Over time, however,
and as the deficits of a system not under their own control became apparent,
the large firms most dependent on skill became obsessed with securing the
right to certify skills, a right that the Handwerk sector monopolized.
The situation in Britain was wholly different because here traditional
corporate artisanal associations had been destroyed through liberalization.
Skilled craftsmen still presided over the training of the next generation, but
they did so from a very different base and vantage point – from within craft
unions whose goals with respect to apprenticeship were bound up in broader
strategies to control the market in their trade. In Britain, apprenticeship
was contested not – as in Germany – between an independent artisanal
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sector and emerging industrial sector, but rather between craft unions and
employers in skill-dependent industries. Thus, as metalworking firms in
Germany were mobilizing to fight for certification powers for their own in-
plant training programs, their British counterparts were mobilizing around
a quite different project, beating back union controls and reasserting managerial
discretion on the shop floor.
In Japan, state policy in the early industrial period liberalized labor mar-
kets by actively disbanding traditional corporate artisanal associations and
repressing nascent craft unions. Thus neither organized artisans nor craft
unions were in a position to (attempt to) regulate apprenticeship at a corpo-
rate level. Here too traditional artisans played a key role in providing skills
for industry, but in a very different way, as individual entrepreneurs. Firms
in skill-dependent industries used them as subcontractors who brought
their own retinue of skilled workers and trained their own apprentices.
This so-called oyakata system was useful to industry because these inde-
pendent craftsmen performed similar training and certification functions as
the handicraft chambers (Germany) and unions of skilled workers (Britain).
Oyakata were highly mobile, however, so the system was associated with very
high levels of job hopping and poaching. Thus, at the same historical junc-
ture in which machine and metalworking firms in Germany were becoming
adamant about achieving rights to certify skills and in Britain were becom-
ing obsessed with reasserting managerial control, their Japanese counter-
parts were completely consumed with the task of controlling labor mobility
by stabilizing internal labor markets.
In the United States, as in Britain, craft unions emerged among skilled
workers in key trades, which meant that here too apprenticeship would
be substantially contested across the class divide. Craft unions in key in-
dustries like metalworking were, however, much weaker, having emerged
much later than in Britain, and at a time when craft controls had already
been substantially eroded through the introduction of standardized pro-
duction and new technologies. As in Britain, so too in the United States,
there were pitched battles between employers and craft unions at the end
of the nineteenth century, but with the difference that in the wake of their
victories American employers went much further than the British to crush
and marginalize unions and reorganize production. To put the U.S. case
in comparative perspective: Whereas in Germany, metalworking firms at
century’s end were concerned to certify skills, in Britain to reassert man-
agerial control, and in Japan to dampen labor mobility, in the United States
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Cross-National Comparisons
the goal was above all to rationalize production and reduce dependence on
skilled labor altogether through technological change, work reorganization,
and product standardization.
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Institutional Complementarities
Institutional Complementarities
As pointed out in Chapter 1, the literature on the political economy of
the developed democracies features a view of distinctive “varieties of cap-
italism” that sees political economies as more or less integrated systems
in which various institutional arenas (industrial relations systems, financial
systems, vocational education and training systems, and systems of cor-
porate governance) cohere in important ways, characterized as they are
by what political economists call “institutional complementarities.” Peter
Hall and Daniel Gingerich have provided very compelling evidence of the
existence of such complementarities among a number of realms based on
quantitative data drawn from across the developed democracies (Hall and
Gingerich 2001, 2004).
Other authors have documented synergies and mutually supportive in-
teractions between specific institutional realms, for example, industrial re-
lations and key financial arrangements (Hall 1994; Iversen, Pontusson, and
Soskice 2000). Such studies show that systems that give labor a strong voice
in plant decision making are underwritten by complementary financial ar-
rangements that provide the “patient capital” necessary for firms to take a
longer perspective on personnel policy. Others have drawn attention to the
ways in which the institutions governing industrial relations and/or skill
formation have “elective affinities” to specific social policy regimes (Mares
2000; Estevez-Abe, Iversen, and Soskice 2001; Iversen and Soskice 2001;
Manow 2001; Iversen 2003). So, for instance, skill formation regimes that
encourage long-term investment in skills seem to “go with” systems of un-
employment insurance that support unemployed workers at higher levels
(thus preserving skills by removing the pressure for skilled workers to take
jobs that do not tap and sustain their training) (Mares 2000).
The existence of these kinds of complementarities must be seen as an
historic achievement of considerable significance, since it is clear that the
various institutional arrangements that comprise any national polity or po-
litical economy were not created in a single “big bang.” Individual com-
ponents were forged at different historical junctures, brought into being
through the actions of different political actors and coalitions. There is no
reason to think that the various “pieces” will necessarily fit together into a
coherent, self-reinforcing, let alone functional, whole. Indeed, Karen Orren
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and Stephen Skowronek have argued forcefully that the divergent “tempo-
ral underpinnings” of various institutional arrangements should generate
contradictions and tensions as institutions representing different political
“logics” clash, or as they put it, “collide and abrade” (Orren and Skowronek
2002: 747). These arguments raise important questions about the sources
of apparent complementarities or why it is that the kinds of collisions and
contradictions Orren and Skowronek’s view predicts are not so pervasive
and debilitating as one might suppose.
Historically speaking it would be somewhat empty to argue that the exis-
tence of a particular set of institutions in one realm “increases the returns”
to the existence of a compatible or complementary set of institutions in
neighboring realms. Although in some cases, such formulations provide a
very apt characterization of the current functioning of particular constella-
tions, as causal claims they leave much to be desired. Since typically there
is no real “market” for political institutions, agent-less versions of the ar-
gument that rely on the logic of selection through market competition are
unpersuasive.2 Such arguments can be made compelling, however, when
one embeds them in an historical account that attaches the outcomes to
agents pursuing specific interests. In this more political version, “powerful
actors” (and these must be specified) may be influential in, perhaps even de-
cisive to, the genesis of particular institutional arrangements (say, industrial
relations) and may therefore also have a strong interest and role in creating
complementary institutions in neighboring realms (say, social policy).
This is the gist of Peter Swenson’s account of the construction and elab-
oration of the “Swedish model,” which features highly centralized indus-
trial relations institutions and a universalistic welfare state – institutional
arrangements that turn out to be mutually supportive in important ways.
Swenson (1991, 2002) traced the centralization of collective bargaining
institutions back to a cross-class alliance forged in the 1930s between em-
ployers in industries exposed to international competition and workers in
low-pay sectors. Centralization served the interests of these particular em-
ployers because it brought under control disruptive behavior of employers
and unions in high-pay sectors (for example, construction) that were shel-
tered from international competition. The success with which centralized
bargaining operated in institutionalizing wage restraint had some nasty side
effects, however, above all chronic labor market scarcity, which became
2 Some economists (for example, Aoki 2001) therefore invoke culture as a unifying causal
variable.
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Institutional Complementarities
3 A finding, by the way, confirmed in this study as well (see especially the concluding discussion
in Chapter 5).
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three (or x) specific policy options on the table at any given moment, but
rather the prior question of whose preferred range of options forms the
“choice set” from which the actors are allowed to select (Hacker 2002;
Hacker and Pierson 2002). Hacker and Pierson attach their critique to
an analysis of the genesis of the Social Security Act in the United States,
highlighting the way in which the broader political context had already
removed certain previously viable options (options earlier embraced by
very powerful business interests) from the agenda (Hacker and Pierson
2002: 12).4
Huber and Stephens (Huber and Stephens 2001) also draw attention
to structural and political constraints, emphasizing how previous policies
have powerfully reshaped the distribution of preferences, by which they mean
the universe of actors who are around to express their interests in particular
(later) policy debates. So, for example, while acknowledging (with Swenson)
that some Swedish employers supported universalistic welfare policies in
the 1950s, Huber and Stephens put a different spin on this observation
by drawing attention to the fact that twenty years of uninterrupted Social
Democratic rule had largely eliminated low-wage producers and in so do-
ing eliminated as well an important source of potential opposition to policy
initiatives at that time. Huber and Stephens argue that analyses emphasiz-
ing capitalist interests need to make sure they do not “lose sight” of the way
in which the preferences and strategies of these actors have been shaped
by the prevailing structural and political context (Huber and Stephens
2001: 33).
Whether emphasizing especially the evolving interests of capital
(Swenson) or the structural and political constraints within which em-
ployers define and defend their interests (Hacker and Pierson, Huber and
Stephens), these analyses all highlight the need to situate the interpretation
of specific choice points within a broader temporal framework that takes
account of the feedback effects that have defined the conditions within
which specific policy and institutional choices are being made. They high-
light the way that policies initiated at one point affect which actors are
around to fight the next battle, how they define their interests, and how and
4 Dobbin (Dobbin 1994) has made a similar point from a more sociological perspective. He
argues that in order to understand cross-national differences in outcomes, it is necessary
to consider not just a particular decision node (even the final one) but rather the range of
options entertained in the first place, often completely different cross-nationally.
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Institutional Complementarities
with whom they are likely to ally themselves subsequently (Skocpol 1992;
Pierson 2003a; Weir 2003). Attention to such feedback effects is crucial for
understanding how institutional complementarities are forged historically
because they alone provide the necessary causal links between the specific
episodes – across different periods and often involving different political
actors and coalitions – in which successive rounds of institutional innova-
tion occur. Such feedback effects establish the raw materials (constellation
of players, definitions of interests) with which policy entrepreneurs, as well
as defenders and challengers of existing institutions have to work.
How do such feedback effects operate? The present analysis confirms
some of the insights from previous scholarship, but also contains new leads
and insights. In some cases, and in line with contemporary theorizing on
“path dependence” in politics, we can observe a traditional logic of “increas-
ing returns to power” – that is, situations in which the victors at one stage
impose institutional solutions that reflect and entrench their interests, thus
biasing outcomes in the next round. An example from the present study is
the case of the United States, where employers – already less dependent
on skilled labor than their counterparts elsewhere – were in a position to
decisively defeat the control strategies of organized labor (and crush craft
unions) at the end of the nineteenth century. This set the scene for more
innovations in production technology and personnel management that fur-
ther reduced their dependence on skilled labor – which in turn rendered
the possibility (indeed the necessity) of joint (union-employer) regulation
of training, and of skilled labor markets generally, more remote over time.
This line of argument mirrors Huber and Stephens’s account of Sweden
sketched out above, in which the victory of the proponents of centralization
in struggles over industrial relations institutions in the 1930s created an en-
vironment (a wage environment, above all) in which low-wage producers
could not survive. This tilted the playing field for subsequent institutional
and policy choices, in their case, discussions in the 1950s over social policy.
Beyond arguments based on a logic of increasing returns to power, how-
ever, the present analysis highlights the way in which institutions created
by one set of actors and for one set of purposes can sometimes be embraced
and “carried forward” on the shoulders of another coalition altogether. As
we saw in the German case, for example, neither organized labor nor the
machine industry was part of the original coalition behind the crucial legisla-
tion of 1897, yet both would eventually become hugely important carriers of
the system that evolved subsequently. The existence of this handicraft-based
289
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5 Employing Greif and Laitin’s terms (Greif and Laitin 2003), this could be characterized
as a situation in which the operation of these institutions produced behavioral effects that
expanded the “quasi parameters” within which the institution was self-enforcing.
290
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Institutional Complementarities
291
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292
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labor and capital one hundred years later. This process was defined not
so much by massive renegotiations at historic “breakpoints” (of which in
Germany over the twentieth century there were certainly plenty), but rather
through processes of layering and conversion (Chapter 1), as the incorpo-
ration of new groups into pre-existing institutions resulted in the addition
of new elements that altered the overall trajectory and renegotiations based
on changing coalitional foundations that redirected the institutions toward
goals and functions completely unanticipated by the original founders.
Much of the early literature on diverse national trajectories tended to
obscure these issues by conceiving of institutions as the “frozen” residue
of critical junctures, or as the “sticky” legacies of previous political battles
(see, for example, Lipset and Rokkan 1968: 3, 50, 54, which employs the
language of “freezing”). More recent literature on path dependence and
increasing returns effects has, however, pushed the debate forward by spec-
ifying the dynamic processes that sustain institutions over long periods of
time (Pierson 2000a). Increasing returns arguments tell an important part
of the story, but they are mostly designed to capture the logic of institu-
tional reproduction, not institutional change. Moreover, in many cases,
explaining institutional persistence will require that we go beyond posi-
tive feedback arguments. As we scan the political and political–economic
landscapes, we find that institutional survival is often strongly laced with
elements of institutional adaptation and even sometimes transformation
of the sort that brings inherited institutions in line with changing social,
political, and economic conditions.
The general argument I have made is that institutional reproduction
and institutional change, which are often treated as completely distinct
analytic problems, have to be studied together and are in some important
ways quite closely linked (see also Thelen 1999). Formal institutions do not
survive long stretches of time by standing still. The language of stasis and
inertia is particularly unhappy because as the world around institutions is
changing their survival will not necessarily rest on the faithful reproduction
of those institutions as originally constituted, but rather on their ongoing
active adaptation to changes in the political and economic environment in
which they are embedded.
An obvious and general lesson that emerges from the foregoing analysis is
to underscore Robert Bates’s cautionary note not to “confound the analysis
of the role of institutions with a theory of their causes” (Bates 1988; see also
Knight 1999:33–4). The present study serves as a strong warning against
varieties of what Pierson calls actor-centered functionalism that engage in
293
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0521837685c06 Thelen 0521837685 May 29, 2004 17:23
6 Although as Schickler (Schickler 2001), Palier (Palier forthcoming), Pierson (Pierson 2004),
and others have pointed out, institutions also often represent compromises among groups
with very different and even contradictory interests. In the present study, the 1897 Handicraft
Protection Law is a perfect example of this (see the analysis in Chapter 2).
294
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with new developments that do not necessarily always push in the same
direction but rather can alter the overall trajectory.
The kind of analysis articulated here helps us get beyond blunt mod-
els of discontinuous change based on a strong juxtaposition of periods of
institutional “stasis” versus “innovation.” It does so not just by identifying
modes and mechanisms of gradual change, but also – this is important – by
forcing us to specify which aspects of the system are getting stably reproduced
over time and which are subject to renegotiation and why. What is incred-
ibly stable through the many truly massive breakpoints in Germany (from
1897 to the present) has been the idea of a collectively managed system
for monitoring how firms train their workers (a quite unusual historical
achievement). On the other hand, what was not at all stable, and subject to
intense contestation and periodic renegotiation was the governance struc-
ture through which this system would be administered. That is what was
periodically renegotiated in ways that on the one hand allowed the system
to survive – by bringing it into line with changes in the societal balance
of power – while at the same time putting on these institutions an entirely
different and unanticipated spin compared with the political and functional
logic of the system created in 1897. This case makes clear that one can often
make sense of the form and functions that institutions have assumed only
by viewing them, as Pierson and Skocpol (2002) recommend, in the context
of a larger temporal framework that includes the sequences of events and
processes that shaped their development over time.
296
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323
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Index
Armstrong, Whitworth and Company, Becker, Gary, 11–15, 21, 127, 147n,
127 173, 210, 211, 284
Arnhold, Carl [Karl], 83–85, 86, 232, Berghoff, Hartmut, 239
233, 234 Berlin Association of Metalworking
Arthur, Brian, 26, 27 Employers, 88
Artisans, artisanal sector (Germany), see Booth, Charles, 103
Handwerk Borsig, 55, 57, 60, 69, 88
Artisans, artisanal sector ( Japan), see Boyer, Robert, 1
Oyakata Brandt, Willy, 264
Association for Education in Industry Bray, Reginald, 115, 127, 128
and Commerce, 142, 143 Britain, compared with Germany, 16, 19,
Association for Metalworking 21, 22, 32, 33, 46, 48, 51, 51n, 53,
Employers, see Gesamtmetall 64, 67, 97, 100, 104, 109, 111,
Association for the Advancement of 114–116, 118, 121, 125–127, 133,
Education in Industry and 135–136, 138, 140, 145–146,
Commerce, 135 279–280; compared with Japan, 21,
Association of Berlin Metal 22, 32, 156, 280; compared with
Industrialists, 57, 75, 86 United States, 21, 38, 148, 177,
Association of German Employers’ 178–180, 181, 183, 184, 188, 189,
Organizations, see Vereinigung der 212–213, 280, 282
Deutschen Arbeitgeberverbände British Electric, 122
(VDA) British Westinghouse Company, 103n,
Association of German 117, 123, 125, 127, 134n
Machine-Building Firms, see Brody, David, 212
Verband Deutscher Brown & Sharpe, 199
Maschinenbauanstalten (VDMA) Bundesinstitut für Berufsbildung
Association of German Metal (BIBB), National Institute for
Industrialists, (GDM), 77 Vocational Education, 260n, 261n,
Association of the German Iron and 265, 268n
Steel Industrialists, see Verein Bundesinstitut für
Deutscher Eisen- und Stahl Berufsbildungsforschung (BBF),
Industrieller (VDESI) Federal Institute for Vocational
Association of Machine and Iron Training Research, 260, 261n, 265
Works, 161n Bundesministerium für Wissenschaft
Ausbildungsplatzförderungsgesetz, und Forschung (BWF), Federal
Apprenticeship Promotion Act of Ministry for Science and Research,
1976, 265 262
Auxilliary Service Act of 1916 Bundesverband der Deutschen
(Germany), 133 Industrie (BDI), National
Axmann, Artur, 227 Confederation of German Industry,
245n, 249, 254
Baethge, Martin, 219, 263, 266, 269, Bundesvereinigung der Deutschen
275, 276 Arbeitgeberverbände (BDA),
Basic Law (Germany), 256n Confederation of German
Bates, Robert, 25, 293 Employers’ Associations, 249
324
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325
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Index
326
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Index
Foremen, 177, 192, 198, 202, 203, 206, Gesamtmetall, Association for
207, 208, 209, 213, 282 Metalworking Employers, 273
Four Year Plan, Office of, 236 Gesetz zur vorläufigen Regelung des
Franklin, Benjamin, 180 Rechts der Industrie- und
Free Democratic Party (FDP), Handelskammern (1956) (IHKG),
(Germany), 253, 264, 265 Law for the Provisional Regulation
Friderichs, Hans, 265 of the Rights of the Industry and
Friendly benefits, 51n, 92, 96–97, Trade Chambers, 241, 256, 258,
98–99, 104, 105–107, 145 258n
Friendly Union of Mechanics, 104n Gewerbeordnung (1869), 248
Functionalism, 6, 7, 24–25, 27, 30, 32, Gewerbevereine, role in training,
36, 293, 294 44–46
Globalization, 1, 3
Gemmill, Paul, 208, 209 Gompers, Samuel, 194
General Electric, 199, 200, 200n, 201, Gordon, Andrew, 163
206n, 208, 278 Göring, Hermann, 236
General skills, 11, 13, 14, 15, 17 Grand Coalition (Germany, 1966–69),
German Association of Chambers of 241, 260, 263
Artisans, see Deutscher Great Depression (1929), 90, 137, 211,
Handwerkskammertag (DHKT) 220
German Committee for Technical Great Lockout (1897), 191
Education, see DATSCH Greif, Avner, 30
(Deutscher Ausschuß für Technisches Großer Befähigungsnachweis (major [or
Schulwesen) comprehensive] certificate of
German Congress of Industry and competence), 228
Trade, see Deutscher Industrie-und Guilds, 21, 21n, 42, 45, 46, 51, 93–95,
Handelskammertag (DIHT) 152, 157, 162, 178, 181, 257;
German Institute for Technical voluntary guilds in Germany, see
Training, see Dinta Innungen
German Labor Front, see Deutsche Gutehoffnungshütte (GHH), 85, 234
Arbeitsfront (DAF)
German Metalworkers Union, see Hacker, Jacob, 218–219, 287–288
Deutscher Metallarbeiterverband Hall, Peter, 2, 3, 4, 9, 16, 285
(DMV) Handelsgesetzbuch 1897, 248
German Trade Union Confederation, Handicraft chambers, role in
see Deutscher Gewerkschaftsbund apprenticeship training, 22, 40,
(DGB) 44, 46–47, 51, 81, 88–90, 229,
Germany, compared with Britain, 16, 19, 241, 247, 256–257, 262–263,
21, 22, 32, 33, 46, 48, 51, 51n, 53, 267–268
64, 67, 97, 100, 104, 109, 111, Handicraft Protection Law (1897), 7,
114–116, 118, 121, 125–127, 133, 23, 33, 39–41, 42, 43–47, 53, 57,
135–136, 138, 140, 145–146, 57n, 58, 107, 175n, 281, 289, 294n
279–280; compared with Japan, Handicrafts, handicraft sector
22–23, 38, 148, 149–151, 156, 163, (Germany), see Handwerk
166, 172–176, 280; compared with Handwerk chambers, cost of training
United States, 32, 184, 205–206, 280 in, 54n, 268, 283
327
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Index
Handwerk sector, 79–81, 88, 174, 221, 250, 250n, 252, 256, 257–258, 259,
224, 228–230, 246, 259, 279; 261, 262–263
definition of, 40n Innungen (voluntary guilds in
Handwerkskammern, see Handicraft Germany), 43, 44, 49, 51
chambers Inside contracting (US), 187–188, 189,
Handwerksordnung (HwO) 1953, 241, 192, 213
256–257, 258n Institutional change, xii–xiii, 3, 4, 6–8,
Hansen, Hal, 19, 44, 44n, 46, 46n, 47, 23–24, 28–31, 33–36, 38, 215,
82, 179, 185, 201, 237 216–217, 218, 278, 289, 291,
Heavy industry, approach toward 292–296; mechanisms of, 35–36;
training (Germany), 237 political coalitions and, 33–36; see also
Herrigel, Gary, 19n, 20, 45n, 49, 51, Political coalitions, role in institutional
56, 76, 245, 270 stability and change
High school (enrollments in US), Institutional complementarities, 3–4,
180n, 210 16n, 278, 285–291
High skill equilibrium, 5n, 10, 149 Institutional conversion, 36, 37, 218,
Historicist explanations, 294 291, 293, 295
Hitler Youth, 219n, 226 Institutional evolution, see institutional
Hitler, Adolf, 232n change
Hollingsworth, Rogers, 1 Institutional layering, 35, 36, 37, 41,
Homburg, Heidrun, 56 217, 293
Huber, Evelyne, 288, 289 Institutional origins, 4–5, 278–282,
294; political coalitions and, xi–xii,
Immigration, as source of skills in US, 20–23, 31–34; theories of, 23, 27
180, 181, 185, 186, 197, 203 Institutional reproduction, 7, 8, 34, 36,
Imperial Institute for Labor Exchange 37, 215, 216, 217, 218, 278,
and Unemployment Insurance, see 292–296; mechanisms of, 7
Reichsanstalt für Arbeitsvermittlung Institutional stability, see Institutional
and Arbeitslosenversicherung reproduction
(RAA) Internal labor markets Germany, 290;
Increasing returns effects, 26, 27, 31, Japan, 148, 149, 165, 166, 167, 169,
34, 289, 291, 293, 295 171, 175, 176, 206, 213, 282, 284;
Indentures, 12–22, 101, 103n, 113, United States, 207, 208, 209,
115, 120, 123, 182, 200, 201, 225 214
Industrial Committee of the Jewish International Association of Machinists
Board of Guardians, 119 (IAM), 182, 183, 183n, 184, 184n,
Industrial Patriotic Council, 171 190, 191, 202
Industrial Training Boards, 147 International Harvester, 200
Industrie und Handelskammer, see International Molders Union (IMU),
Industry and Trade Chambers 188
Industrielle Mittelstand, 43n, 76–77, Iron and steel industry (Germany),
79 81–86
Industry and Trade Chambers, 59, 67,
79; role in apprenticeship, 221, Jacoby, Sanford, 185, 187, 192, 201,
222–223, 226, 236, 241, 247n, 249, 208
328
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Index
Japan, compared with Britain, 21, 22, 32, United States, 181–184, 189, 212,
156, 280; compared with Germany, 280, 282; comparative strategies of
22–23, 38, 148, 149–151, 156, 163, employers toward, 279, 281–285
166, 172–176, 280; compared with Laitin, David, 30
United States, 148, 177–178, 184, League of German Crafts, see
188, 206–207, 210, 213–214, 280, Reichsverband des Deutschen
282 Handwerks (RDH)
Job classifications, 203, 203n, 206, 207, League of German Industry, see
211, 284 Reichsverband der Deutschen Industry
Job control unionism, 22, 178 (RDI)
Journeymen Steam Engine and Legislative reform of training (Britain),
Machine Makers’ Friendly Society, 93, 128, 129, 134, 135, 137, 141,
104 147
Jowitt, Kenneth, 29 Leimig, Josef, 254–255
Junior Technical Schools, 127, 141n Leipzig Agreement, 235
Levine, Solomon, 152, 166
Kansai Industrial Federation, 172 Ley, Robert, 220, 231n, 232, 234–235
Katznelson, Ira, 29, 292 Liberal market economy, 2–4, 5, 9, 16
Kawada, Hisashi, 152, 166 Life-time employment ( Japan), 160,
Kearney & Trecker, 196 164–166, 167, 169, 172, 282, 284
Kelly, Roy Wilmarth, 195 Lockouts (Britain), 105, 106, 107,
Kerschensteiner, Dr. Georg, 127n 108–109, 113, 132, 135, 140, 146,
Kieslinger, Adolf, 246, 246n 191
King, Desmond, 147 Loewe, Ludwig, 55, 57, 60, 69
Kleiner Befähigungsnachweis, (minor Low skill equilibrium, 5n, 10
certificate of competence), 57n Luchtenberg, Dr. Paul, 253
Klug, Thomas, 190
Knight, Jack, 25, 32 Machine and metalworking industries,
Knox, William, 95, 96, 100, 116 role in training, 278; in Britain, 104,
Kocka, Jürgen, 40n, 48–49, 51 122–125, 127–129, 134, 143; in
Krause, Erwin, 254n Germany, 41, 42, 53–55, 56, 57–59,
Krupp, 234 62, 63, 72–73, 174–175, 279, 290; in
Kultusministerkonferenz (KMK), Japan, 152–153, 155, 157, 158, 162,
Standing Conference of the 174–175; in the United States,
[state-level] Ministries of Culture, 186–188
244, 244n Mack, Frida, 78
Mahoney, James, 27
Labor, organized labor, Britain, 81, Major [or comprehensive] certificate of
99–100, 104, 130–131, 131n, competence, see Großer
138–139, 189, 212, 280, 283; Befähigungsnachweis
Germany, 48–53, 65, 66–67, 68–72, Maschinenfabrik Augsburg Nürnberg
90, 175–176, 218, 219n, 241–242, (MAN), 55, 56, 57, 60, 69, 73, 278
251n, 252–255, 257, 258, 259, 262, Mason, Timothy, 220, 226
262n, 263, 264, 276, 290; Japan, Mass production, 184, 185, 191, 192,
151, 166, 168, 169n, 171–176, 282; 213
329
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Index
330
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Index
331
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Index
332
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Index
Vereinigung der Deutschen 220n, 221, 222, 225n, 227, 228, 230,
Arbeitgeberverbände (VDA), 231, 232, 233n, 237, 238n, 239, 246,
Association of German Employers’ 246n, 250, 252n, 260n, 281
Organizations, 88 Weingast, Barry, 25, 30
Vestibule training, 204–205 Weiss, Linda, 172, 176
Vickers, 122, 124 Welfare capitalism, 198, 200n, 201,
Vocational schools, Britain, 123, 124, 206, 214, 284
125–127, 127n, 128–129, 130–131, Westinghouse Company, 199, 200, 208
141–142, 145; Germany, 45, 45n,
54n, 61–62, 74, 85, 225, 225n, 227, Wigham, Eric L., 146
229, 239, 240, 242–244, 250, 272n, Winchester Repeating Arms Company,
274; Japan, 171n; United States, 192
194–196, 210–211, 214 Wisconsin model of skill formation,
Vocational Training Act of 1969 196–198, 198n
(Germany), 91, 218, 242, 259–262, Work Promotion Act, 275
263, 264 Working Committee for Vocational
Vocational Training Law of 1958 Training, see Arbeitsausschuß für
( Japan), 173 Berufsbildung (AfB)
Vocational training reform, failure in Works Constitution Act (of 1952), 255;
Weimar period, 88–90 (of 1972), 263n
von Dohnanyi, Klaus, 264 Works councils (Germany), 133, 263,
von Rieppel, Anton, 56, 60 263n
Wright, Erik Olin, 158
W.H. Allen, Son & Co., Ltd, 123
Wage compression, 15, 15n, 17n, Yahata steel mill, 153, 154, 165, 169
68, 69–70, 74, 138–139, 140, Yawata Iron and Steel Works, 168
273 Yokosuka, 154, 160, 165, 278
Wage coordination, 20
Wage system, skill formation and, Zaibatsu, 167
110n, 138n, 143, 166, 168, 170, 172, Zeitlin, Jonathan, 100, 136n, 137, 139,
206–208, 209, 273, 284 147
Wagner Act, 211 Zentralarbeitsgemeinschaft (ZAG), 65,
Wagner, Karin, 270, 272 67, 73
Ware report, 243, 253 Zentralstelle zur Erforschung und
Webb, Sidney and Beatrice, 95, 98, Förderung der Berufserziehung
117 (ZEFB), Central Office for
Weimar Republic, 15, 22, 34, 41–42, Research and Promotion of
53, 63–91, 111, 146, 166, 176, 218, Vocational Education, 254
333