by Maria Riva
The pride in her husband’s voice made Jane’s heart beat faster. My intelligence pleases him! she thought.
“Nuns?” Hannah shrugged, her tone dismissive. “Now, little one—up! A vash, a varm bed, a good night kiss, no more! Husband, you hear dat?” Hannah’s eyes pierced John, as though she had slapped him. “Den, in de morning you vake up, be a brand-new girl—de vorld all shiny good!” By Hannah decreed, so be it!
In the Geiger boardinghouse, things were done her way. Her husband Fritz never questioning her good sense, nor her ability to run their life as thoroughly as she did everyone else’s. So Jane’s first day in her new home went according to her landlady’s dictum, all except the “good night kiss” that turned into an offhand, though friendly, verbal “Good night, Jane,” even though it was only late afternoon.
She woke feeling guilty. Her husband’s side of the bed was empty. He must have already gone to work—and here she was, languishing under a mountainous feather bed as though she had no wifely duties to perform. Jumping up, chiding herself for such outrageous negligence,she realized that as they had arrived on a Saturday, this day must be a Sunday! Still, even Sundays required attending to one’s husband’s needs and, throwing off her nightclothes—that she had no recollection of how she had gotten into—she washed, plaited, knotted her hair, turned from the small framed mirror to find that her suitcase was nowhere to be seen.
Standing naked, feeling very self-conscious, she looked about the room seeing for the first time what was to be her home. Small, bare, except for essential pieces of brooding furniture, it had the look of transient occupation. The iron bedstead painted white, giving it an institutional look, dominated; two chairs mismatched, one cushioned, a slate-topped washstand, its doors decorated with borders of Bavarian hearts and spindly geese. On an ink-stained library table by a small window, a jelly glass with lavender sweet peas attested to a landlady’s welcome. In a massive wardrobe that seemed to dwarf the room further, Jane found her few belongings hung next to those of her husband’s, his so neatly aligned, no one would have suspected they were the belongings of a bachelor. His best suit, the one he had worn to be married in, seemed to be missing. Being Sunday, he must be wearing it. Perhaps he had gone to early Mass or expected later to be going to church, his wife by his side. Half dressed, Jane sat on the edge of the bed, to think how best to handle her refusal to do so, then remembered her husband’s scorn when criticizing her for not knowing who the Man of Light was. The practically degrading way he had pronounced religion did not, to her way of thinking, indicate an overly devout churchgoer. The more she mulled this over, the more convinced she became that Providence must surely have been on her side. Not only had she married a man completely unknown, who as yet had not surprised her unduly, but now it seemed, by mere chance, had found one who, by all indications, might not be a zealous Catholic, ruled by dogma, stoically oblivious to all reality. With such a man, this marriage of hers might be much easier to bear than first envisioned. Dressed, her spirits high, feeling ready for anything, she left the room.
Hearing voices, she followed their sound down the narrow stairs to a windowless room where men at a long linen-covered table sat within the perimeter of light from a shaded chandelier, having breakfast. Jane hesitated in the arched entrance as one of the men, his guttural accent identifying him as one of Balkan origin, said, “The flywheel magneto line before you left, John, no good! But now it works. Tomorrow—come—I show you.”
Hannah, moving down the table filling blue and white patterned cups from a large graniteware coffeepot, exclaimed, “Ach! Here! Our new Vifey, she is here! Come—come in, little one.” Waving her over. “Here, sit here by de blushing husband!”
Jane, feeling the speculative scrutiny of the now silent men, sat. At the head of the table, a stocky man, in Sunday vest and shirt garters, his Santa Claus face clean-shaven, broke the uncomfortable silence. In a booming voice, its German-Yiddish cadence matching his wife’s, he introduced himself as Fritz Geiger, husband of the “Boss”—adding, in a swallowed aside, “No manners—my Frau.”
Hannah, who could hear if a pin dropped in a house up the block, called from the kitchen, “Again, you criticize, Mr. Big Shot? First, I feed de so-tin wife—den comes your fancy manners!” Pots and pans slammed in emphasis.
Avoiding Jane’s eyes, the men drank their coffee. Smiling, John ladled sugar into his.
“Here, Child—eat!” Hannah plunked a tower of steaming flapjacks oozing butter and glistening syrup in front of Jane, shook out a large linen napkin, tied it under her chin, and, giving her back an encouraging shove towards the plate, took up her coffeepot. Suddenly ravenous, Jane did as she was told. Never had she tasted anything as good, but didn’t dare to ask what it was she was enjoying so. This time choosing to do so in German, Fritz Geiger complained to his wife for instigating an uncomfortable tension around the Sunday breakfast table. Hannah, pouring coffee, ignored him. Taking a last swallow of the strong black brew, Jane unknotting her bib, feeling wonderful, smiled, acknowledging her fellow boarders.
“See what I mean? Now de child is ready for de big meeting of everybody.” Hannah delighted, right as always, put down her pot, cleared her throat, and began. “Now, new Vifey, pay attention. Dat handsome baby boy next to you? Him you know. Maybe not yet so good, but soon maybe too much?” That brought chuckles. The boarders loved Hannah’s performances, now sensing one in the making, leaned back in their chairs, ready to enjoy it. “On de udder side of you, sits our Polish ox. Big important, rim-wheel man. Puts more tires on veels faster dan any udder—vas recommended by foreman, got even mentioned in our special Ford Times paper … Mr. Peter Clutovich, I introduce if you please!” A gentle giant, head and neck seeming fused, reddish hair standing like a scrubbing brush atop an innocent face, rose, extended a callused paw and, careful not to crush it, shook Jane’s hand, growling, “Welcome, Lady.”
Hannah beamed. “Very nice. Now from him, down de line, sits our Casanova Fancy Man. Very clever mit de Lizzies. Every time he mounts one, he dreams maybe it is his sweetie Frederika who still is vaiting in a stall in his Austria because she is maybe a cow! … Mr. Rudy Zegelmann, still bachelor!”
Laughing, not at all put out, a strapping tow-headed young man with delicate features took Jane’s extended hand and bending low, brushed the back of it with his lips. The audience applauded.
“Ach! De real Austrian! Enough horse-playing! Dis is serious good manners!” Hannah, keeping a straight face, continued, “Now ve come to Rumanian gypsy, also bachelor—Mr. Dark Silent—alvays mit de pomade in de so black hair and de beautiful moustache he fondles like it vas a lady love—best japanning man in de Ford business—watch out for him, Vifey … Mr. Stanislav Bartok—Stan for every day.”
A reedlike man, long angular face, pale background to a gleaming ebony moustache, curled tips waxed, bowed, shook Jane’s hand with a feathery touch.
“More coffee, Boys?” Those still not introduced thinking they had escaped, chorused, “Yes!”
“Aha! Veaseling out? I make fresh after. So, next. Here ve got a real beauty! Answer to a maiden’s prayer—strong, good earner, good looker and best, not too bright. Girlies lead him by de long nose easy! Our special real Englishman, who likes to eat good, so here he is mit Hannah, not de stuck up Mrs. Adams four-streets-over … Mr. very, very proper, Jimmy Weatherby, foundry big shot.” A tall man in a buttoned jacket and tie stood, reached across the table to shake Jane’s hand with shy deference.
“Vifey, two Poles ve got, ain’t ve lucky! Here is our number two—him the big cheese foreman on magneto line. Soon, Vifey, you vill know vat all dis means. In dis house ve have so much Ford big shots ve can build our own Model T. So now say hello to Mr. ‘Know-It-All’… Carl Baldechek.”
The gravel-voiced man Jane had heard on entering, got up, walked around the table, pumped Jane’s hand, slapped John’s back congratulating him on an excellent choice and beaming
, returned to his place. “See—big shot! Now comes our new Hollander. Him married, even a Papa already so won’t stay long but his Vifey not over yet—still saving up. So every day, poor man, dead tired and sad missing everybody. Very proper, never no hanky-panky like some I know, just sweet, lonely boy … Mr. Johann Niedellander, specialist mit de pistons.” Pink and scrubbed, thin blond hair falling over one eye, his shy young smile welcomed Jane across the table from him. “See vat a sveetheart boy? Next … Mr. ‘Buzzing Fly.’ Sits quiet, only to eat—even in bed he tvitches, so I hear from who I can’t tell. Him, special tester—big shot, everybody has to listen to our Bulgarian Mr. Zoltan, mit a last name you can’t pronounce.” A smallish man, wiry as though under tension, with piercing black eyes above a sensuous mouth, jumped up, moved quickly to Jane’s side, shook her hand as though in a frantic hurry to go somewhere, then sat down again.
“Come on, Hannah, now Fritz—and make it good!” the men chimed, egging their landlady on.
“And last, dere he sits … Mr. Supreme, ‘De Man of de House.’ Bestest leather man trimmer, so good dat Mr. Ford himself says ‘Hello’ to him. So delicate, he stitches the diamond shapes like a fine needle-lady he isn’t! A good man, in bed and out … Mr. Fritz Vilhelm Georg Geiger! Maybe now, Papa, you should give de new Vifey a kiss, yes?”
Her husband, face red as a beet, rose, took one step, stopped, turned back, picked up his napkin, dunked one corner into his coffee, wiped his mouth thoroughly, then walking over to Jane, bent down, gave her a ringing smack right on her lips and returned to his place at the head of the table amidst appreciative applause. Hannah left, returned from the kitchen, bearing a huge platter laden with yeasty doughnuts, red jelly oozing, the men groaned, “No more!”
“Just a little nosh! Von’t hurt.”
As the men talked, Hannah refilled their cups, watched with smug satisfaction as her baking bounty disappeared. Jane, munching her first jelly doughnut, trying to understand what everyone was saying, their different accents so distinctive, thought her husband’s fellow workers were fascinating and the fact that none of them seemed to be in the slightest hurry to rush off to church, endeared them even more than when she first shook their capable hands and had decided, she liked them.
Being the only other woman present, Jane felt it only right to assume the female duties of helping in the kitchen. As she washed dishes, she was torn between admiring what she was washing them in and trying to overhear, hopefully understand, what the men were discussing in the dining room. All that filtered through was the booming voice of Fritz Geiger.
“Good to have you back, John. As Carl says, the moving line idea can work, but that we knew when we tried it with the ropes. We still have many problems, I tell you …”
Hannah drying and stacking, having noticed Jane’s admiration of her washing receptacle, began informing her that this magnificence was called a sink, but not just any old, what-others-might-have sink, but a porcelain-enameled-iron-roll-rim one that had cost the fortune of eleven dollars and twenty-five cents—a whole week’s pay!
“Vonderful, no? See, every time ven you twist handle, vater runs out. No pumping like old times! Long, long times we save, went mitout, so poor we lived. All de time only dreaming someday to buy a house, have like dis sink … valls covered mit quality vallpaper, real electricity light—oh, everyting! Maybe whole of Mr. Sears and Mr. Roebuck and dat Mr. Montgomery Ward Company mail order catalog books.” Handing Jane a dishtowel, she whispered, “Here. Stop vashing, dry hands—ve sneak avay a minute—I show you someting also not to be believed. Come!” Her accent even more pronounced by excitement, Hannah grabbed Jane’s hand and pulling her, hurried out of the kitchen, up the stairs, down a hall wallpapered in shepherdesses and their flocks, to a door bearing a white porcelain plaque.
“Now, Vifey, take a breath and I vill show you vat in America is called My Pride and Joy.” A perfunctory knock, a breathless hesitation, then, getting no response, she flung open the door—stepping aside so that Jane could receive the full impact of what was exposed. Jane struck speechless, did not disappoint. “Vonderbar, yes? Look—look—” pulling Jane further into the gleaming bathroom. “Only de bestest battubs have like lion feet—and cold and even hot runs direct into! … And dis, de inside house water closet and it can, as it’s called, flush! Can’t do it now, de whole house hears. My Fritz fixed de plumbing—Vell?”
“It is, how you say it? Magnifico!”
“Downstairs, by de back porch, I have anudder inside house closet but de golden oak box dere is high, high up de wall and a chain hang down to pull—dat one not so noisy—dat I don’t know vy. Puzzles me!” About to lead Jane out of her porcelain palace, Hannah had a sudden thought. She was prone to explosive inspiration. “Vifey, vile so new husband downstairs, out of de vay, busy mit de big talking of dis and dat of de Lizzies, you, quiet like a mouse, take a bat! Yes? All over one. I mean it! I go fetch nice big towel and my soap mit lavender. You den soak. No hurry. Take your time. Don’t vorry. Next I give dem strudel, dey sit all day! Till it’s time for Sunday Supper Special!”
Out she scooted. Back in what seemed seconds, with towel, soap, and a big fluffy sponge, patted the stunned girl’s cheek, saying, “Come, come—never mind daytime and you all dressed—undo! Now is good time. Nobody need special batroom!” And closing the door behind her with a last look, “Lock—mit de hook dere is,” hurried downstairs to perform more magic in her kitchen.
After Sunday supper that was again consumed as though no one had seen food for weeks, the men, as was their custom, moved to the small parlor, as Hannah put it, to digest. They settled themselves into a copious selection of overstuffed armchairs, elegantly upholstered in muted shades of maroon plush, each with its own small side table and padded footstool. Men who were on their feet for nine-hour stretches under highly intensified working conditions, welcomed such considerations so far beyond the usual boardinghouse benefits. Their gratitude, at times, was quite touching, their genuine affection for the one responsible for this added care, an automatic result. Home and homeland left far behind—striving to succeed—make a new life in a foreign land that promised so much yet gave only to those who could endure, lonely, often uncertain, fearing their ability might not suffice to carry them towards their longed-for goal, immigrants soaked up any kindness shown them like parched earth water. The Geiger boardinghouse run on the premise that everyone in it was Hannah’s child, could justly boast that, as she often remarked, “Empty bed? Ve never got!”
In the sufficient light provided, the men read their newspapers, smoked—some, legs stretched out, dozed. Factory talk gave way to contentment overlaid by a weariness that Sunday was nearly over and Monday loomed.
In the kitchen, the dishes were done, preparations made for very early morning breakfast, the dining table laid, the yeast starter for Hannah’s sweet rolls rested in its crock.
“Thank you, Vifey, you big help. No need, you know, but nice doing mit company dat smells so good from lavender. Now, little one, go up, get ready for to sleep. Tomorrow is anudder day. Don’t vorry. I tell boys good night for you and send husband up after,” giving Jane a fast peck on the cheek, Hannah shooed her out of the kitchen.
Slowly, Jane climbed the stairs to their room, a faint apprehension disturbed her. She wondered where it came from, what caused it, then shook it off, started to get ready for bed.
As methodically as her husband designed tools for Henry Ford, he made Jane his wife. Neither love nor discernable passion entered into the act, efficiency did. When it was over, she lay beneath him numbed by the experience, though not shocked by it. It had been too bereft of emotion to warrant any.
That she hadn’t liked it, that she knew. That she could tolerate it being done again, she also knew. After all, it was an expected consequence of marriage that had been spared her until now and, if this was all that was required, it would not disturb her existence overmuch. As John moved o
ff her, Jane turned away from him and slept.
She woke to the sounds of her husband hurrying to leave the room. Not knowing what wifely duties were expected of her at the beginning of a working day, she used that excuse for herself to pretend sleep. The noises of hasty breakfasts filtered up from below, the commotion as men left for work.
Jumping out of bed, she inspected it. It was a small stain—she hadn’t bled much—it would be easy to wash out. Stripping the sheet off the bed, she bunched it, threw it down by the door, put on her flannel wrapper and, knowing the house was now empty of men, hurried on legs strangely unsteady, to the wondrous bathroom to wash. Later hoping she could pass as trim and proper, telltale sheet tucked under her arm, she descended the stairs in search of her landlady.
In the kitchen, pungent with the lingering perfume of fried bacon and warm cinnamon, she found Hannah putting away the breakfast dishes.
“Ach! Dere you are, Vifey!” A welcoming smile on her flushed face, her sharp eyes having seen the sheet the second Jane had entered. “First, coffee. Mit a fresh Schnecke made dis morning by me personal, here called a danish—why? Don’t ask! A riddle. Come, child, sit—give me—” She reached out for the bundle. Jane backed away, clung to her sheet. “Ach, so!” What was she to do with this skittish fawn that looked more like a self-sufficient stork? Poor frightened child, pretending so hard to be a grown woman. She, who had once too been this innocent—now remembered that long-lost time and when she looked at Jane clutching her sheet, her eyes showed a tenderness the girl had never seen nor experienced, not even with Teresa. Now like a magnet, it drew her to this woman’s side and into her arms. As though this was quite natural, an often-repeated gesture, not the least extraordinary, they stood holding each other—the barren woman and the motherless child. Both had come home—but didn’t know it just then.