You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  John lit his cigar, leaned back in his chair expelling a bluish haze that joined the air already thick with the smoky aromas of assorted tobaccos.

  Stan Bartok, fanning a lit match across the bowl of his pipe, mumbled, “John, I don’t agree with the whole idea. The damn place is in an uproar. It’s chaos! What’s wrong? Our work no good—no more?”

  The men of the Geiger Boardinghouse, whose life’s blood not only financially but emotionally was their involvement with Ford, were split as to the merits of the revolutionary idea that was being tested, implemented in specified sections of the plant. Rudy Zegelmann, his black eyes snapping, for once their seductive gaze erased, agreed, “Damn right! So what do I do? Just stand there? Wait for my little chassis to arrive, pinch it on the behind and wave bye-bye? No way to work!” Cursing in Austrian dialect, he took a small pouch and paper from his coat pocket and began rolling a cigarette.

  “Oh, Rudy, come on! Now it takes twelve and a half hours to assemble a Model T. If the Boss wants it quicker, new ideas maybe work. Watch and see!” said Peter Clutovich who since his congratulatory encounter within the pages of the Ford Times, was known to have a doglike loyalty to his masters that bordered occasionally on blind adulation.

  Stan Bartok turned to John. “You always know statistics. Last season, how many Ts did we turn out?”

  “Seventy-eight thousand four hundred and forty.”

  “And what’s the goal now?”

  “Two hundred sixty-seven thousand, last time I heard—but demand is more!”

  Jane nearly gasped out loud, the men smoked in silence. John flicked the ash off his cigar.

  “What’s wrong with bringing the work to the men—instead of the men to the work? That’s how the meat packers do it in Chicago!”

  “Come on, John. Assembling an automobile that has more than five thousand parts is not like cutting up a dead cow!” Carl Baldechek grunted.

  “Why not? We are talking about piecework—precision piecework—every action timed … individualized. My God, man, can’t you see it? Thousands of men in stationary motion. Every movement controlled, timed by the rhythm of a line that is moving! Jesus, Carl, that’s the future!”

  It was times like these that her husband’s passionate enthusiasm reawakened Jane’s first memories of him and she found, once again, how attractive this made him.

  “Listen,” John continued, “you’re the one who knows it works, Carl.”

  “But when they set up the line to move and gave twenty men the twenty-nine separate operations, what happened?”

  “We turned out one hundred and thirty-two every hour,” Carl answered begrudgingly.

  “Of course! I saw the results on paper. One man needed twenty minutes before the assembly line moved. After it was put in motion, it took thirteen minutes ten seconds. My God, can’t you see what that means?”

  Stan stroked his moustache, shaking his head, “I still don’t trust it.”

  “And who’s going to set the speed?” Stan challenged.

  “Ja!” Fritz joined the discussion. “With orders already more than what we can produce, Mr. Couzens for sure now will want that kind of speedup quick for all operations.”

  Sensing a slight censure in Fritz’s tone, John hastened to comment. “Henry Ford knows what he is doing. Trust him.”

  “Sorenson is the one to trust. If it can be done, he is the one who will do it for sure!” Carl corrected him.

  Fritz looked up at the ornate cuckoo clock, said it was late as Hannah entered and shooed her “boys” to bed. Jane remained to help tidy up the parlor, turn off the lights, check the windows and doors, then followed her husband up to bed. That night, when he fell asleep without touching her, she shocked herself by wondering why he hadn’t.

  The more Jane found herself thinking about her status as wife, the more this confused her. Why should she be concerned, even influenced by a man’s moods, his attitudes? Why should it mater, all of a sudden how he reacted to her? She knew she was not like Camilla, who came unstuck if a man just looked at her, and an Antonia—she was most emphatically not; going around needing to entice a man as though always hungry, looking for nourishment—Jane thought debasing. Yet she remembered how John had been attracted by just that. So why hadn’t he chosen Antonia, who by all indications, would probably relish the so punctual nightly exercise. And why was she taking the time thinking such ridiculous thoughts when she had work to do and should be doing it? Well, the next time John touched her, she would be the one to turn away—go to sleep. See how he would like that! As Hannah would say, “tit-for-tat.” Do him good.

  Most evenings now, the Ford men talked shop. In the testing sections, the new assembly system was giving everyone trouble; by demanding that workers remained stationary while a line moved, not only its rate of speed but its height became a crucial point of discussion. Men who knew their craft, had been in command of their every move to execute its skilled perfection, now were being asked to perform within a stationary position—rooted in place, as assembly, broken down to a wide range of separate components passed by, dictating the rhythm of their every action. Jane in her usual corner, darning needle busy, listened, as always fascinated by anything to do with her husband’s idol and his so famous “flivver” that had given the common man his freedom to roam.

  As foreman, always a mother-hen type when dedicated, Carl worried about his men. “John, lifting the line to waist level may solve the stooping problem but still … Okay—I know—they clocked us when we walked and it took too long … still, we knew what we were doing … all of us. We did our job right.” His voice sounded even gruffer than usual.

  Stan, his Rumanian heritage contributing to his usual somber distrust, now made his point. “What kind of worker you think will now pull down wages? Nine hours standing in one spot, doing one simple action over and over, a monkey can do—takes no brains—just endurance.”

  Johann stretched out his long legs.

  John proclaimed, “I bet you that in six months’ time, by spring, every line at the plant will be in constant motion. We all know that a moving line works, so why are you all excited?”

  “Excited? Who’s excited!” Fritz sucked on his pipe.

  “Come on, John. Since you’ve been gone, and this thing started, you know how many men have quit?” Not waiting for an answer, Carl continued, “We lose maybe forty men every week and …”

  “Why, for God’s sake?!” John interrupted. “Who’d be dumb enough to leave Ford?”

  “These are no boobs—these are skilled men and most of them go over to the Dodge Brothers.” Carl’s tone held censure.

  “Handwork, John, is still craftsmanship to some,” observed the Englishman.

  “Well, Jimmy, I’ll answer that with the words of Henry Ford, ‘Man minus the machine is a slave—Man plus the machine is a free man.’“

  “You really believe that?”

  “Sure! All of us here, we are building a machine that is freeing a whole nation!”

  “Yeah—while its builders maybe are losing theirs!” murmured Stan.

  John turned on him. “If you think that, why haven’t you gone over to the Dodge Brothers?”

  Before the Rumanian could answer, Johann jumped in. “Stan, what is Mr. Sorenson doing in all this?”

  “‘Cast-Iron Charlie’? He’s everywhere, watching—making notes—correcting. Heard he has some idea of bringing from my top floor some of the big parts down from above—sort of continuous shoot the chutes. Soon our Highland Park plant is going to get a new name. From Crystal Palace to Ford Motor Company Amusement Park.”

  “I hear maybe we too get pulleys up high, like trolleys to come from floor to floor. How can that be done?” Peter, the wheel man, sounded thoroughly confused.

  Rudy’s gaze took in the men assembled in the parlor. “So, you all are going to be happy being a monkey?”
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br />   Preferring to ignore its implication, no one rose to the bait. Fritz checked the clock, wound his pocket watch.

  “John, you know that new man who came in to clear up the wage structures? Well, my friend, now, we got only three levels and the big news is, because you have now wife to feed, you go up to level C-One—and that means you’re getting a raise! Me too, also Johann, but, our so happy-go-lucky bachelor boys here? They gotta get hitched before they can get the raises!” Fritz chuckled, “See how clever our John? Gets himself married just at the right time!”

  Zoltan jumped up.

  “I’m off—good night!” and hurried from the room. The others followed suit. Jane caught her husband’s eye and, when he nodded, picked up her work basket and followed him upstairs to bed.

  Other evenings, the parlor talk took a lighter course. Flivver jokes were retold as were the latest wonders achieved by their precious motorcar. As Jane became more and more familiar with the language and the Ford men who spoke it, she often felt she was listening to lovesick boys, extolling the virtues of a girl they all adored.

  “Hey, Carl, did you hear the one about a patron of a large department store who asked for tires for his T, then was directed to the ‘rubber band’ department? Wait … I heard another … what time is it when one Ford follows another? Tin after tin!”

  “Isn’t that a lulu!” Peter slapped his thigh.

  Carl joined the fun. “Heard the one of the parson who’s giving a sermon on better church attendance?”

  Everyone became attentive.

  “Well, this parson, he is preaching that it’s the demon automobile that is taking people away on Sunday outings to have good times—instead of to church—so he says, ‘The Model T has taken more people to Hell than any other thing I can mention’ when a lady in the congregation starts clapping her hands, moaning ‘Glory to God! Praise the Lord!’ ‘What’s the matter, sister?’ asks the parson and the old lady answers, ‘A Ford never went anyplace that it couldn’t come back from, so I reckon all them folks in Hell will be comin’ back someday. Praise the Lord!’”

  Some evenings, becoming suddenly aware that there was a newcomer in their midst, who not only seemed interested in their lady-love but eager to know more, the men fell over themselves telling Jane all about her.

  “First, she was built all by hand in a little secret room hidden away where only Mr. Ford and special men he trusted were allowed in. That was way back in the years 1907 to ’08 and then, when finally, there she stood, all perfect, tested, finished—you know what they did, Missus Jane?” Fritz paused, letting the suspense take effect.

  Jane, fully affected, breathed, “What?”

  “Mr. Henry Ford said, ‘Now, boys … take her apart!’—and, that they did! Piece by piece, bolt by bolt. Everything! They laid out all the pieces like a giant puzzle right there on the floor of the secret room, so to make the drawings, the plans, so everyone will know for always how to put together again their so perfect Model T! No one sing ‘Happy Birthday,’ but that’s what it was that day for our Lizzie!”

  “What are you rascals teaching my wife?” John asked good-naturedly as he entered the parlor.

  “We were only trying to explain how to start Lizzie up!”

  John settled in his chair, stretched out his legs. “Nothing to it! First you sweet-talk her—then you crank like crazy!”

  Carl gave him a look.

  “My boy, watch your tongue. Your lady wife will think we are a bunch of bully-boys!”

  “Oh, my Jane is no shrinking violet. She has a sensible head on her shoulders and knows how to use it!” For some reason, this remark of her husband’s both pleased and rankled and, for the life of her, Jane couldn’t think why.

  The next evening, on the way to his chair, Zoltan first bowed in Jane’s direction, then hurried over to whisper, “Last night they forgot to tell you—she holds the world’s hill-climbing record. Just point her nose downhill and reverse her up it—and with the crankcase oil? Once it warms up a little, she settles right down like the good girl she is,” and he scurried off to sit in his chair.

  “Zoltan! Whispering sweet nothings to my wife?”

  “Oh, goodness! No!” Zoltan, flustered, shook his head like a quail on the run. “Only thought your Missus should be informed of what was left out last evening …”

  John, trying not to laugh, continued in the tone of a suspicious husband, “And, what was that?”

  “What? Oh dear!” One eyebrow developing a tick, Zoltan’s eyes darted about the room looking for help. The men hid behind their papers, pretending disinterest. John’s questioning gaze remained fixed on the squirming tester, who, nearly stuttering, beseeched his would-be accuser. “The warming of the crankcase oil! So she settles! The Lizzie.” By now, both eyebrows were twitching. “To start her up is tricky climbing—well …”

  John could hold it no longer, his laughter exploded. The men howled. Zoltan, the butt of a joke, was miffed.

  “That was not fair, John. Putting me on! Thought you were serious. Not good for the nerves! Not good at all!” and opening his paper with noisy flourish, he disappeared behind it, refusing to be spoken to for the rest of the evening.

  As time passed and the men kept singing her praises, the Lizzie became sort of human, even to Jane. Her indomitable courage, her honorable dependability, her devotion to her owner, her spunk, appealed to Jane, like someone real one would want to meet, call a friend. That little black motorcar had a way of capturing one’s heart; this might be considered foolish to admit but “by gum,” Jane was learning all sorts of American expressions, it sure felt right to love it! Secretly, she determined, no matter how long she might have to wait, that someday she would ride in a Model T, have Lizzie show her the freedom of the open road!

  5

  The first time Jane laid a fire in the coal stove, poured on the kerosene, then lit it—thick smoke spewed from its iron belly, engulfing everything. Hearing the mighty swoosh, Hannah rushed into her kitchen and, seeing the blackened apparition, doubled over with laughter, slapping her thighs.

  “A minstrel—in my kitchen! I got a minstrel! Hey, you gonna play me a fine toon on your banjo now, ya? What a ninnie!”

  Jane, covered in soot, just stood there, feeling very foolish yet grateful Hannah wasn’t angry, thinking it would take days to wipe all traces clean! That evening, over supper, the boarders were treated to a full theatrical performance of what became known as the Big Black Minstrel Explosion. As it was embroidered with fascinating additions whenever retold—it was requested whenever they felt Hannah was in the mood to perform her rendition of “De Camptown Races,” strut and all. It was from this that Jane received her very first nickname, the one that John used from then on. To hear her husband call her Ninnie was a joyous warmth she held on to—until the very end. But her first reaction to it surprised her because she liked it so much! Perhaps, as with some nicknames that seem to change one’s character in order to suit them better, for her, Ninnie by its lilting sound indicated a lightness, a girlishness, a special femininity, even a prettiness that as a plain Jane she secretly aspired to, so that when she heard herself called by it, she had the feeling of being actually pretty.

  October passed, but not before Jane was introduced to Halloween. She had dreaded the arrival of November and its macabre beginning of All Saints’ Day as she remembered it from Cirié. The candles, the incense, the sanctimonious reawakened mourning for those long since turned to dust, mostly forgotten. So, when Hannah, all smiles, solicited donations from her boarders for something called penny candy—saying that this year she would be adding Neccos to her trove of Jub-Jubs—Jane, intrigued, asked her what those were and why.

  “Oh, Vifey! I forget—dis your first. I tell you. Last nighttime of dis month, October, children, some naughty, some not so, come—in sheets—mit sock full mit flour. You puzzled, right?” Jane nodded. “I explain. First, de
y sing-a-ling—‘Trick or treat!’ What that means? Dat mean if no treat, you get a bang mit de sock, flour mess all over your nice front door. So what you do? Give quick a candy treat, Jub-Jub, maybe even a peppermint stick—or sometime licorice twist—den dey happy … go away. Dat’s American Halloween!”

  Jane digested this for a minute, then questioned, “Why sheets?”

  “For de ghost dressing up!”

  “Ghosts—are fun?”

  “Sure, only children playing—not serious—good to have fun mit de ghosts, not so scary den for little children such tings. Tomorrow night, Vifey, you watch door—you learn. If we lucky, dis year maybe we even get some witches!”

  Stationed by the front door, supplies of sticky treats awaiting the arrival of Happy Ghosts, Jane, ready at her post, filched a Necco from the brown paper sack and, though surprised that a child’s sweet should taste of lavender, had to admit once gotten over the initial shock, that it was delicious. Hannah, keeping one eye on her bubbling goulash, the other on her front door, enjoyed the parade of little ghosts as much as Jane’s obvious delight with her first introduction to an American holiday.

  Now that winter was coming, Hannah’s sumptuous soup tureen, so diligently transported from an old life to dispense its warming comfort to a new, took its rightful place at suppertime. Carl floated chunks of crusty bread in his favorite lentil soup.

  “Saw young Edsel did his summer job real well. Every machine has its brass plaque—everyone identified—nice and tidy. Good boy that!”

  “Hey, did you notice he always carried a notebook, just like the Boss? Keeps jotting things into it, just like him, too.” Rudy took a swig of beer.

  “Mr. Ford is proud of his boy. Rightly so. He’s a credit to him and his Missus,” Carl observed.

  “You watch, someday that boy will surprise his proud Papa. Has a head on his shoulders, thinks for himself.” Stan admired the spindly youth who liked to work in the plant during his summer vacations.