City Manager of Health and Charity and former Denver mayor Dr. William H. Sharpley took quick action. Having heard reports of influenza across the state and assuming that the epidemic would soon reach Denver, he had proactively formed an influenza advisory board on September 26. 2 Sharpley urged the public to be on guard. He recommended that residents avoid needless crowding, cover all coughs and sneezes, keep their homes and offices well ventilated, and seek a physician at once if cold-like symptoms developed. He also offered the less-than-helpful recommendation to keep a clean mouth, a clean heart, and clean clothes, and advised “mak[ing] nature your ally, not your prisoner” by avoiding tight clothes and shoes. 3

Neither Sharpley nor the influenza advisory committee were convinced that the eight cases in Denver were due to the same virulent “Spanish influenza” strain that was making its way across the nation.4 It was not until several days later, on October 4, when the number of cases and deaths had climbed rapidly, that Sharpley and the advisory board realized they were facing the deadly epidemic. Sharpley quickly ordered hospitals to isolate influenza patients in separate rooms and not in the general wards, or to use screen dividers between beds in institutions where such separation was not possible.5 Denver braced for the worst.

The next evening, Mayor W. F. R. Mills, the city council, the bureau of health, the local medical association, the school board, and representatives of the clergy and the business community, met to discuss the impending epidemic and decide what actions should be taken. The medical representatives recommended closing places of public assembly, arguing that it would save money as well as lives. The large numbers of cases expected, amplified by the equally large number of people who would have to care for the ill, would have a devastating impact on Denver’s economy. The business community agreed. As the manager of the Rialto Theater stated, “I shall sacrifice gladly all that I have and hope to have, if by so doing I can be the means of saving one life.” This was a hyperbolic statement to be sure, but one that echoed loudly in 1918, when citizens were expected to sacrifice for the greater good of a nation at war.6

Less than ten minutes after the conclusion of the meeting, Sharpley had drafted an order, signed by Mayor Mills, closing all schools, business colleges, churches and Sunday schools, clubs, lodges, pool halls, movie houses, theaters, reading rooms, Red Cross work rooms, dance halls, and colleges (except those under government supervision), and banning all music rehearsals, public indoor funerals, fraternity and lodge meetings, and all other places of public assembly (defined as two or more people). Workplaces with large numbers of employees were to be inspected by the health department and all suspected cases discovered would be segregated, and those buildings found to be poorly ventilated would be ordered closed. The order would go into effect at 6:00 am on Sunday, October 6. For that day only, Catholic churches would be allowed to hold their early mass, as there was no way to contact members of the congregation before they began arriving.7

Denver residents generally adhered to the health department’s closure order and public gathering ban. Interpreting the order literally, however, people soon began congregating outdoors in the busy downtown shopping district, as the public health edicts only applied to indoor assemblies. Clergy began holding outdoor services for their congregations. As the number of new cases continued to increase, these assemblies were said to be the cause. Business owners and those unemployed as a result of the closure order were particularly vociferous in decrying these gatherings, arguing that the epidemic could not be stamped out quickly unless all assemblies were halted, outdoor as well as indoor.8

By the morning of October 15, physicians reported 257 new cases in the last 24-hour period, bringing the total number of cases since the start of the epidemic to 1,440. Sharpley attributed this sharp rise to open-air assemblies, and more specifically to the “criminal neglect” of those who participated, and banned them forthwith. He also added more restrictions, prohibiting streetcars from carrying more than 65 passengers and requiring them to be fully ventilated at all times, and instituting staggered business hours for down businesses and offices to alleviate crowding on public transportation. Stores located within the downtown business district had to maintain 9:00 am to 6:00 pm hours, while offices and other businesses were required to close by 5:00 pm. Lastly, public outdoor funerals were added to the list of prohibited gatherings; previously, only indoor funerals were under restriction.9

The Slow Road to Recovery

By October 20, just a few weeks since the appearance of the first cases in the city, Denver residents began to grow restless with the closure order. Records of new cases from the previous 24 hours seemed to indicate that the peak of the epidemic had been reached, and health officials looked with great hope to the end of the epidemic. Mayor Mills went so far as to announce that the scourge would be nearly over within a week. As the number of new cases dropped slightly, Sharpley and the health department came under increasing pressure to re-open the schools, theaters, and entertainment venues. The health commissioner was guardedly optimistic. He announced that he hoped to allow theaters to re-open in time for Saturday shows on October 26, and that if theaters were allowed to re-open schools would be as well. State health authorities, who had enacted a closure order and gathering ban two weeks earlier, were not so optimistic, however. On October 25, when the latest influenza figures did not indicate the decline everyone had wished for, the state board of health announced that the closure order would not be lifted at present.10

By the first week of November, the situation appeared to have improved enough to revisit the idea of lifting the prohibitions. On November 7, Sharpley, Mayor Mills, and the state board of health met to discuss the re-opening of Denver. According to the plan they adopted, churches would be allowed to hold one half-hour service starting Sunday, November 10. Catholic churches were allowed additional services to accommodate their large congregations, provided each mass did not last longer than thirty minutes and no two services began within the same hour. Theaters, movie houses, and other public amusements could open after midnight, but only with written permission from Sharpley’s office. Those places located in areas where the epidemic was still raging would not be allowed to open. Some measures were to be kept in place. Schools were to be kept closed for an additional week, and would not open until Monday, November 18. Streetcars were still subject to the same ventilation and maximum passenger restrictions, public funerals were still prohibited, and bargain sales at area shops and department stores were not allowed. Office buildings and department stores were also to hold to the current, staggered business hours. The public was warned to limit gatherings so far as possible.11 It seemed that Denver’s bout with influenza was finally drawing to a close.

Immigrants, Influenza, and Scapegoating

The coast was not yet entirely clear, however. Influenza was still reported to be raging in several immigrant neighborhoods, particularly in Little Italy and to a lesser extent in Globeville, the Eastern European immigrant enclave. Despite–and perhaps because of–the city’s small total foreign-born community (only 15% of the total population in 1920), immigrants were often the objects of scorn in Denver.12

Prejudice made it easy to single out Italian immigrants as noncompliant. As the rest of the city seemed to be recovering from the epidemic, Little Italy and Globeville (the Eastern European immigrant neighborhood) were still suffering. One unidentified health department official attributed it to the social customs (and perhaps unwittingly to the poverty) of these two immigrant groups. “When an Italian or Austrian [a catch-all term for anyone from the former Austro-Hungarian Empire] is taken sick, a physician is seldom called,” he told the press, “but all the relatives and friends immediately flock into the house to call on the sick person.” For this reason, he argued, the epidemic continued to rage in these neighborhoods. In contrast, the epidemic was said to be well under control in the West Colfax neighborhood, the Jewish section of the city.13 Another unidentified health department official put it more bluntly: “The foreign element gives us much trouble when an epidemic occurs. They pay no attention to the rules or orders issued by the health board in its effort to check the disease.” He also attributed the problem to family and friends calling on the ill–“two or three dozen or more,” as he put it–rather than isolating the patient and avoiding contact.14 In short, Denver’s Italian population was seen as unable or unwilling to adhere to the middle-class values of social orderliness considered so important–and so “American”–to their native-born counterparts.

To help ensure that the epidemic did not rage out of control once more, health authorities intended to keep Little Italy and Globeville under the closure order even as it was removed for the rest of the city. The health department printed notices in Italian and posted them throughout the neighborhood, informing residents that influenza was spread by visiting the ill or attending funerals of those who had died of the disease. “If you want to keep well, keep out of the sick-rooms,” the posters admonished. To make sure these instructions were followed, the department ordered its officers to enforce strictly quarantines in Little Italy and to force occupants to remain indoors and to discontinue all visits.15

Armistice Day: Peace in Europe, War on Influenza

Ultimately, the epidemic did rage once more. On November 11, the day that the epidemic measures were lifted in Denver, communities across the United States celebrated Armistice Day. Thousands of Denverites thronged the streets, hotels, and other buildings, celebrating the war’s end. Over 8,000 attended a celebration at the city auditorium alone. That evening, after several weeks without entertainment, crowds attended theater shows and movie houses, watching Ethel Barrymore in Our Mrs. McChesney at the Strand, Theda Bara in Salome at the Broadway, and others.16

Health authorities realized that such crowding was likely to result in a new surge in influenza cases. They also acknowledged that there was little they could do to prevent it. As one official put it, “There is no use trying to lay down any rules regarding the peace celebration, as the lid is off entirely, and should be on account of the glorious ending of the world’s biggest war.” He added that there undoubtedly would be an increase in new cases as a result, however.17

There was. In the days after the Victory Day celebrations, physicians reported increasingly large daily tallies for new cases. A week after the event, Denver was experiencing a hundred new cases and a dozen or more deaths per day.18 Sharpley blamed the public for the epidemic’s resurgence. “It is not the lifting of the closure ban that is the cause of spreading of the epidemic,” he stated, “but the putting aside of all precautions and restrictions by the people of Denver when they celebrated on Victory Day.” Mayor Mills did not think the situation serious, believing that flare-ups would be likely in the near future until the epidemic had passed completely. Nevertheless, the influenza advisory board was called to meet on November 22 to discuss the situation.19

At the meeting, the advisory board recommended once again closing the city’s places of public amusement and issuing another closure order. Sharpley and Mills agreed, and a second order was issued, putting into effect once more the same restrictions used until just two weeks prior. In addition, the twelve members of the influenza advisory board were made health officers and given the authority to arrest any person going into or coming out of a quarantined residence. Streetcars were to be limited to carrying 65 passengers, and conductors were subject to arrest for violating this order. Lastly, all persons entering a store, factory, or other place where large numbers of people congregate were required to wear a face mask. Those who refused to wear a mask were to be barred from entering stores and theaters. The board recommended that streetcar passengers wear masks as well, but it was not made mandatory.20

This second set of restrictions caught the public by complete surprise. Despite the increase in new cases in the days leading up to the November 22 meeting, Denver residents had been told repeatedly by their officials that the main danger of influenza had passed and that the city was on its way to recovery.21 Business owners, especially theater and move house operators, protested vigorously, complaining that the closure order was discriminatory, as it singled out theaters and movie houses while still allowing people to congregate in downtown department stores. Theater and movie interests, along with owners of pool halls and bowling alleys, met and quickly formed an “amusement council,” which adopted a resolution calling on the city either to close all businesses where people congregate or to allow all businesses to operate provided patrons wear masks.22

In the face of such opposition–representing an estimated $2.5 million in capital–Mills, Sharpley, and the advisory board rescinded the second closure order (public schools excepted) only a few hours after it had gone into effect. In its place they instituted a revised mandatory face mask order. Beginning at 4:00 pm on Monday, November 25, Denverites would be required to wear gauze face masks while riding streetcars, when attending church services, when in theaters or any assembly (indoor or out), while shopping, when riding in elevators, when working in a factory, when working in an building to which the public was admitted, or when visiting a physician. Those who served the public in any capacity were also required to don a mask.23

An “almost indescribable confusion,” as the Rocky Mountain News put it, resulted from this sudden shift in policy. Throngs of people crowded city hall seeking clarification of the new rules. Many stores along busy Sixteenth Street were unable to obey the new order, as there simply were too few masks to be had to supply either employees or customers. The Red Cross reported that it was doing all that it could to produce more masks, but it could not keep up with the sudden demand. Store and factory managers told the health department that they were trying to adhere to the new order, but that they would not turn away customers or employees if they were unable to obtain more masks. The answer they received was to simply do their best under the circumstances.24

Enforcement of the mask order was another problem. Even Mayor Mills, despite going along with the proposition, did not expect widespread compliance. He was correct. The day after the mask order went into effect, only a few downtown stores were seen to be using masks. Reasons were as varied as they were creative. “We have received no direct orders from the health department,” said the head of one downtown department store, “and cannot take notice of a newspaper report.” A salesgirl in another shop replied that her “nose went to sleep” when asked why she was not wearing her mask. Another un-masked salesgirl said that she believed that a higher authority than the Denver Department of Health was looking after her well-being.25 The general public was also reported to be going about its business largely as if the order did not exist.

To make matters worse, the mask order that had placated theater and movie owners now upset the streetcar company and its conductors. The initial iteration of the order required that conductors of the Tramway Company, the company that ran Denver’s streetcars, enforce the mask order aboard their cars. The Tramway Company balked at this idea, however, arguing that its conductors had no legal authority to refuse a ride simply because the passenger was not wearing a mask, and that attempting to do so would result in innumerable fights between patrons and conductors and possible lawsuits against the company. Deputizing conductors would serve no purpose; if an unmasked passenger refused to comply, the conductor would be forced to arrest him or her, thereby abandoning his streetcar in the middle of the road while he went in search of a police officer or called the local station. Mills therefore directed the police to enforce the order, letting conductors off the hook.26

The result was much the same. Despite the presence of police officers on busy street corners checking to make sure streetcar passengers were wearing masks, and threats of fines ranging from $10 to $200–a hefty fee in 1918–for those who were not, the majority of Denver residents still refused to wear their masks. Most complained that they were too uncomfortable to wear and interfered with normal breathing. Others argued that gauze masks were useless against influenza.27 In the face of such opposition, there was little city hall could do to enforce the order. As Mayor Mills put it, “Why, it would take half the population to make the other half wear masks. You can’t arrest all the people, can you?”28 It appeared that Denver residents understood that the answer all too well. Mills and Sharpley therefore revised the mask order yet again, this time merely recommending that the general public wear masks while in crowds and aboard streetcars.29

The new ruling appeased the Tramway Company and the public, but it still did not mollify conductors, who bristled at the ridiculousness of having to wear uncomfortable masks all day while their passengers did not. Conductors threatened to go on strike and to let every single streetcar sit idle in the barn unless the mask order was further modified. The walk-out was narrowly averted at the eleventh hour only when the mayor and Sharpley revised to mask order yet again, this time requiring conductors to wear masks only during the morning and evening rush hour commute and when passing through the busy downtown business district between Broadway and Union Station.30 Mills announced that police would now strictly enforce the new order–now in its third iteration–and would arrest scofflaws.31 Even if the highly porous surgical gauze masks of the day were effective against influenza, Denver’s order was so watered down by this point as to make it practically meaningless.

By this time, however, the second spike in cases was on the decline, and it appeared as if Denver was emerging at last from the far side of the epidemic. Mills and Sharpley met on November 30 and annulled the mask order completely, effective at 6:00 pm on Saturday, December 1. Isolation and quarantine orders were made more stringent, however, and only nurses and physicians were allowed to enter sick rooms. In addition, all houses with suspected cases were to be placarded.32 Save for these two points, however, no further restrictions were ordered and none were considered by the mayor or the board of health.

Conclusion

While new cases continued to develop in the following weeks, and many still resulted in death, the worst was now over. Slowly, Denver life began to return to normal. It occurred in fits and starts. Several traditional end-of-the-year social events were cancelled by organizers out of fear of spreading the dreaded disease. The Salvation Army, for example, cancelled their annual Christmas parties for poor children, as did the Denver Women’s Press Club its New Year’s Eve ball.33 Much to the chagrin of students and to the joy of parents, the public schools at last re-opened on January 2, 1919. The time missed was hardly vacation, as children learned when they returned to their classrooms: the missed time was to be made up by extending the school year into July. Schoolteachers came close to not receiving pay for the weeks their schools were closed. The heads of the school districts maintained that the epidemic was an “act of God,” and therefore the school system was released from the bounds of its contracts. It took the intervention of Colorado Attorney General Leslie E. Hubbard to rule that the contracts were binding on both parties, and that teachers were entitled to their pay so long as they were willing and able to carry out their duties.34

Then, of course, there were those whose lives were directly touched by the epidemic. For Denverites–and indeed all Americans–who lost friends and loved ones to the deadly plague, life would never be the same. Across the nation, the epidemic left countless widows, widowers, and orphans, and Denver was no exception. The epidemic may even have taken the life of Dr. Erlo Kennedy, the 38 year old executive secretary of the Colorado board of health, who died on February 4, 1919 of pneumonia due to a “severe cold” that may have been influenza.35