by Maria Riva
Suddenly shy, Jane asked, “Where, please?”
Hannah gestured for her to follow, led her to the back porch, pointed to an enormous zinc washtub already filled with steaming water.
“Monday—vash day. I show you how ve do it—hard part boiling de vater, den carrying out already done! Now, we take Fels-Naptha bar one hand, sharp knife in udder and scrape. Make curly chips fall into tub. Are you vatching?” Jane nodded. “Now, mit hand, svoosh like dis, make pretty bubbles—see? For whites, like dis—take dis can, here … but careful! Sal-soda. Scoop out some, svoosh around some more … now, put sheet in—oh, give me already! No shame, child.” Throwing the sheet into the water, she pushed it down with a wooden paddle that resembled a broken-off oar. “Now, here ve have really American miracle, dis called ‘washboard.’ See—sturdy wood frame around glass—yes, true! It is glass, like little steps but not delicate—vatch—ve put in, steady inside tub and now … rub up and down—up and down, rub-a-dub-tub, come clean as a vistle, no one de viser—dat’s American saying. Someday I learn you German, too, yes?” Expertly, Hannah wrung the now clean sheet, threw it with a mighty “plop” into the second tub for rinsing. “Come, bring de basket dere—good time—much to do. Den I show you anudder miracle I got. Dis one is called a wringer. When you crank handle, it squeezes de vater all out—so big hard hand squeezing no more! Real modern American my house, no?”
“Oh, yes, Signora. It is full of wonder,” said Jane, truly impressed as she tipped the contents of the big wash basket into the tub. All morning they scrubbed, rinsed, wrung, lugging pails of water from the kitchen out to the back porch, taking turns with the miracles. Stretched, then hung sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths, napkins and shirts on long rows of clothesline that traversed the small back yard, helping themselves to the clothes-pegs that hung in a big cloth sack.
“Signora …”
Hannah held up a warning hand. “Little one, ve stop mit de stranger talk. Hannah, dat’s my name—so please use it. Yes?” Jane smiled her pleasure, nearly dropping the clothes-peg held between her lips.
“So?” asked Hannah, bending down to the wash basket.
“Oh, I just wonder if Herr Geiger and you have seen the city of New York.”
“Ven ve got passed from dat Ellis Island, vere ve vere, ve vent. Stayed mit Hyman, school friend of my Fritz, vere he lived a place called Hester Street. Nice name, not so nice street—too much like old country. Vy go all de vay across de sea to so big America to live all squeezed? Everybody on top of everybody like bees, but no honey. Everybody still poor, so vork hard daytime, even all de nights. Bring piece vork sewing home—so whole family stitches. Even de little children so hard dey vork … but nice, too—all togedder, safe vere everybody speaks de same. De talking I miss—sometime. But not good to hold on too much on tings too gone avay. Ven I become American citizen, I am one hundred percent United States!” Hannah shook out a sheet, its wetness cracking the air. “So, child, why you ask?”
“Oh, I wonder if you know Signora Cantonocci. We stay with her overnight.”
“You did? Vat happened?”
“Happened? Nothing. I see her beautiful green parlor with—how you say ‘statues’? And so many nieces, very pretty.” Bending to pick up the empty basket, Jane did not see Hannah’s expression. Even if she had, she probably would not have understood why her landlady suddenly looked so cross.
Before supper that evening, Hannah cornered her “baby” John in the hall. Her low voice ominous, an accusative finger poking his chest to the rhythm of her words, she hissed, “Okay, Fancy Boy. You explain to me, right here and now vy you take a so new innocent Vifey to dat House of Hanky-Panky in dat city full of it!”
John, under attack, about to hang up his hat on the hall tree, stopped in mid-reach.
“Who told you that?”
“Your sweet Vifey—who knows not a ting—tinks only nieces and so pretty parlor! You should be ashamed!”
“I’m sorry, Hannah, but it was the only place where it wouldn’t cost anything for the night!”
“Cost? It vould have cost you plenty! Count your lucky stars you got avay mit it! Dat hot stuff Daisy—she dere still?” That last barb Hannah threw at him over her shoulder as she hurried back to the kitchen and her simmering stew.
One morning that heralded what Hannah proclaimed would be a late summer scorcher, she placed a numbered card in her front window, covered the kitchen floor all the way out to the back porch with old newspaper, poured a tall glass of her sweet lemonade and sat peeling potatoes anticipating something. Jane, in the back yard hanging her wash, heard the loud clip-clop of a heavy horse, when Hannah called, “Vifey! Iceman here! Come, come see!”
Dropping her clothes-pegs, Jane ran. In front of the house stood a thick, muscled horse, hitched to a splendid wagon that reminded her of those gypsy tinkers who came to Cirié on festival days. Its rear wheels high, front ones low, painted bright red; the sides of its enclosed body elaborately decorated with ornate lettering that curved above and below a large oval-shaped scene depicting two happy polar bears in an artistic arctic setting. A big scale swung merrily from its back; but Hannah said Mr. Kennec, the Ice Man, always “guesstimated”—he was so good at it that he never needed to weigh her fifty-pound block. His baggy pants held up precariously by very old suspenders half attached, Mr. Kennec was as chunky as his horse. Everything about him gave the impression he was in the process of coming apart at the seams. On seeing Hannah and Jane, he doffed his cap, hailed them with, “Mornin’ Ladies!” as he swung his pincers, biting into a large block of ice that he hoisted onto his shoulder padded by a piece of soggy sheepskin. Up the back porch stairs, into the kitchen, melting ice dripping, mixing with the mud from his boots, Jane, following, understood why the need for the newspaper on the floors. From a loop on his belt, Mr. Kennec lifted an ice pick of lethal proportions—as Hannah exclaimed, “Vifey—now vatch! Dis is beautiful! Real talent dis man got! He do it here inside for me.”
Fist clenching his mighty weapon, the iceman raised a bulging arm and struck! Crack! Ice chips spewed up into the air like silver fireworks! Once more a mighty blow and Hannah cried out in wondrous delight. “See! Presto! It fits! Into my icebox it fits like hand in glove!” Mr. Kennec sheathed his stiletto-like weapon, beamed, basking in her approval. “Come, now, drink lemonade—all ready for you like alvays. Oh, excuse … dis here new vife of my Italian boarder—Missus Jane, just come over from de old country!”
“Howdy, Ma’am, pleased I’m sure.” Mr. Kennec tipped his cap, drank down his lemonade in one gulp, smacked his lips, collected his twenty cents and doffing his headgear once again, said in a tone of sad farewell, “Next summer then, Missus Geiger. Good winter to ya. You take care now. You too, Miss,” and left.
Hannah gazed after him as though a good friend had departed on a long journey, then began picking up wet newspaper.
“Nice man. In vinter time big Lake Erie makes special ice. But is so big hard work to cut out. Den, de ice vaits in de big icehouses for me to get ven hot time summer comes around again. Clever, no?”
Jane nodded in agreement. That day, under the chestnut tree when she had heard of an icebox for the very first time, having the chance of actually ever seeing one had been quite inconceivable, yet here she was, in the same room with one, had witnessed ice splinters in splendid explosion and Jane was now convinced that she had finally seen it all!
As summer ended, time became sectioned by routine, the women’s days as structured as those of the men punching time clocks. Beds stripped, aired, remade, carpets beaten, everything dusted, polished, brushed and shined, peeled, cut, sliced, pounded, kneaded and cooked. Interrupted by exciting adventures of long walks to the grocery man and butcher to select, discuss and argue prices. Jane observed new wonders as they applied to the preset structures of daily life. Those still to be discovered just had to wait out their time.
She learned how one could feed
eight men and still have pennies left to hide away in a sugar bowl for “dat rainy day dat oh, God in Heaven shouldn’t come,” that the big broad paddle really did help stir the wash when hands and arms felt they would drop off. That a little salt, sprinkled into boiling starch kept it from sticking, that a tub half filled with ashes and water made such a strong supply of lye that, when added to water, it turned it soft as rain. How one padded the kitchen table, heated an iron, pressed upon it mountains of shirts and still had it cleared in time to prepare supper. How to brush a man’s suit correctly so it would look as though newly store-bought, that a coarse broom was for cellar, yard and porch, while a soft broom was for inside only.
The scrubbing of floors—that she knew, but even there Hannah had a few tricks to teach her that she said would make it easier when Jane had a home of her own and would be “big mit child!” No matter how used Jane got to Hannah’s way of speaking her mind, there were times when she still could shock her. Being “with child” was not part of the bargain she had made. No matter how many women commented favorably on her capability to produce, Jane had no intention of doing so. Mothering was foreign to her—to be one a disturbing intrusion, even an unpleasant one. She was sure by willpower alone she would avoid it.
In bed at night, her husband continued his right to her. She, not knowing that this required anything of her, lay submissive as always, waiting for the whole mysterious gyrations to be over, reducing the act to mere bodily exertion, love a misnomer.
That John was patient, with overtones of disinterest, did not help her introduction. That his true passion was the consummation of his work made sex within their marriage a routine of duty, practiced when the reminder of its obligation arose. If Jane had loved him, perhaps that emotion might have propelled her into a needing physical maturity. As it was, he emptied himself, she received, without reaction or complaint. It would take quite a long time before she would learn what it was she had been missing. For the present, she thought that marriage, once entered into for its paramount reason, held few advantages after its initial need had been realized.
What bothered her though, and that she should be bothered at all she found irritating, so out of character for herself, was the physical regularity. Her husband’s so predictable punctuality of availing himself of her, that brought her at times to the brink of inner fury. She astonished herself for being affected by something so basically common, for if she analyzed the whole strange procedure, parts of it could be considered even pleasant. The touch of another’s body held a certain comforting warmth, even its encompassing weight could not, in all fairness, be judged wholly dislikable. So why was she suddenly so resentful?
Whenever Jane confronted self-confusion and got no immediate satisfactory solution, she turned whatever was bothering her around, distilling it to pseudo non-importance. Slowly, Jane became a housewife, if not a wife.
She baked bread that only had air holes where they ought to be, was introduced to the consummate skill of producing an American pie crust. Became so proficient in lemon meringue pies that Hannah stopped making them altogether, letting Jane be the one to receive the men’s accolades whenever she paraded hers into the dining room, while Hannah perfected her already perfect apple instead. The men threw themselves into what they perceived as a pie rivalry between the two women. Tasting, looking serious, tasting some more, feigning indecision to taste again. “Yesterday Jane’s lemon was just a little tart—Hannah’s apple was just right … but, I’m not sure … so you better give me another slice, just to be sure …” As Sundays were exclusively reserved for strudel and doughnuts, during the week, like small boys, they played their tasting game consuming an astounding amount of pie in the process—never fully aware that the two women were enjoying themselves as much as they. Jane found there was something in the very act of baking an American pie that seemed joyous, wholly inexplicable, yet true. As the seasons changed, so did the fillings. Jane gave up on pumpkin when it just refused to become one of her accomplishments—but that was all right with everybody because in pumpkin pie, Hannah was untouchable. In a world of backbreaking work and dedicated concentration to hold on to it, childlike behavior often serves a vital function. To become an untroubled child, even for minute spaces of time, allows a burdened spirit rest.
In her kitchen apron, escaped tendrils of hair framing her face, Jane opened the door for her husband, greeting him in Italian. “Good evening, John. You have time to wash up for supper. Fritz and the others are home already. Oh, in our room, you will find a bushel basket I have lined with some cloth that Hannah let me have. From now on, please place your dirty wash into it, not as you have been doing, on the floor. Now that I am here, Hannah should no longer collect and wash your clothes. Also, by next payday, I shall have an accounting book, then you can give me the allowance for our household purchases. It is time for me to learn how such things are acquired and accounted for in the American way.” Slightly taken aback, John informed his wife that he was used to leaving all such things to capable Hannah and was answered, “Well, now that you have a wife, it is no longer the responsibility of another. Go wash … supper will be ready in six minutes,” and Jane marched off to the kitchen.
In a foul mood, John ate his meatloaf, not even looking up when his wife, having taken on the chore of serving the evening meal, asked him if he wanted more gravy on his mashed potatoes. Hannah, having been told to sit for a change, eat with the men, enjoyed the unexpected luxury as much as John’s reaction to Jane taking charge. “Vifey” was no longer the poor little thing she had first welcomed into her house. Not disliking this new self-sufficiency in the young woman, still it interested her what was really responsible for its appearance. Love could bring such self-awareness, satisfactory sex even more so, yet Hannah’s unfailing instinct told her neither of these reasons were correct. No, this tall girl-child, with all her sensible seriousness, her cool calm, was still unawakened, a virgin emotionally, if no longer in body. Hannah’s thoughts corrected themselves, no—even the body part not a woman yet. She would have to have a little serious talk with her Baby John for sure. There was something there he was not doing right by that good girl she had come to love.
The next day, John brought home a present for his wife, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string.
“Here, for you.” He handed it to her, adding, “Mr. Ford says every good American home should have one of these. Open it.” Watching as she unknotted the string, winding it around her fingers before putting it into her apron pocket, smoothing the paper to use it again, she unwrapped her first book, entitled McGuffey’s Eclectic Primer. “This one is for you to keep. The office will let me borrow more later when you have learned this one.” She was about to thank him, when he continued, “Jane, I wish to speak to you. Although in English you are making excellent progress, your pronunciation is beginning to sound like Hannah’s. You must watch that. Your ear for language is much too fine to allow yourself to speak so badly. Please try to remember that not all words beginning with a W are pronounced as though they start with a V and that the starts with the sound of th, not a d.”
Jane thanked her husband for the lesson and the primer, in Italian, and left to help Hannah in the kitchen.
As scrubbing floors required one to be down on one’s knees, Hannah decreed that German, the language of force and conscientious labor was in its correct setting to be learned. Hanging wash, on the other hand, could lend itself to learning that a W was not a V—that is, when one remembered to take the clothes-peg out of one’s mouth first. Jane, a true linguist, eventually became quite proficient in German, although for the rest of her life, she retained a slight Yiddish cadence when speaking it and though Hannah did finally master her “whats,” “wheres,” and “whens,” th remained her unconquerable enemy forever.
In between chores, Jane waded through her primer and thought how utterly boring; but plodded on diligently until she arrived at Lesson L-1 and, suddenly, everyone was rep
laced by “the Lord and all His so Holy Goodness” and took over the text like punctuated clobber onto the mind. That stopped her cold and she switched to deciphering the old newspapers that were kept bundled up in the attic. Whenever a little time could be stolen, feeling guilty yet determined, Jane would creep up there, sit on the floor beneath the low-slung roof and teach herself to read in English. She found many interesting things had happened the year before. A Mr. Wilson, with a strange first name, had been elected as a president; the greatest ocean liner ever built, an unsinkable “Floating Palace,” on her maiden voyage had struck an iceberg and sank with the loss of 1,503 lives—a real millionaire among the dead, heralded as “The Tragedy of the Century.” Another gentleman had actually reached the South Pole and a place called Boston had defeated New York in something called the World Series. 1912 intrigued her so, she couldn’t wait to go back further to find out what 1911 had been like—but that would have to wait. She had still so much to learn. What she really could not decipher, she skipped—hoping it would clarify later when she knew more and could come back to it.
Whenever her husband inquired how she was coming along with her McGuffey’s Eclectic Reader, adding that he would be disappointed in her if she failed to follow Mr. Ford’s so excellent curriculum, she lied in Italian, assuring him of her dedication to its contents. Once she nearly made a slip, when, at the breakfast table, Johann, the Hollander, asked what street Mr. Ford’s house was on and she blurted, “Sixty-six Edison Avenue in Detroit. Well, last year anyway,” having just the day before devoured an old society section. When everyone stopped eating and stared at her, she tried to cover quickly by explaining she must have overheard it while listening to some ladies gossiping at the butcher’s. Fortunately Hannah let the coffee boil over just then and that diverted the men’s attention.
After supper Jane usually took her mending downstairs to work quietly in the parlor. While the men talked, she listened—pretending that she wasn’t.