by Maria Riva
As one of the heavy irons began to glow, wrapping a flannel around its handle, she lifted it off the stove—banging it down onto its trivet with such force, the table shook.
“Dat nosey Rudy! … Someday I get dat smarty Austrian good!”
Jane, trying not to laugh, unrolled the bundle of dampened shirts. “Hannah let me do the ironing.”
“No! Not good now for you to do long standing work. You a Mama long before your baby come out. Remember dat. You can help mit de beans. Sack of dem is on de porch. For cleaning and snapping you can sit. Peeling, like potatoes, also okay. So—maybe, while you expecting I make you my special vegetable girl, just like de fancy cooks in de fine houses got!”
Jane fetched the sack of string beans and, with bowl on lap, sack, pot by her chair, settled herself by the kitchen table. Hannah folded an expertly ironed shirt, adding it to the stack beginning to grow.
“Vifey—tomorrow night—right after dishes done, put away, you and me, we go up to sleep early. Reason for dis is dat dis Monday, washday gotta start even before de dawn comes. Dis week coming much work. Is time for de most special American day called Tanksgiving. Old custom from American beginning days, when Englishmen called Puritans … why I don’t know … got friendly mit de Indians because dey bring dem gifts to eat so de Palefaces shouldn’t starve in de bad wintertime. Dat’s how American peoples got to know about pumpkin and buttered corn … Oh! It’s vonderful … vait and see! Everybody eat till de buttons pop off! … Hearts, too dey want to burst out mit so much tanks in dem, Indians not scalped everybody—so now dis vonderful country is safe and hearty!”
Though slightly confused, Hannah’s infectious joy swept Jane along the preparing of a feast that even by Hannah’s generous culinary standard was to be astounding. The hunt for just the right turkey was an adventure in itself!
Like Moses arrived on the shores of the Red Sea, Hannah—in galoshes, long winter coat, muffler, and second-best hat, carrying her grandfather’s walking staff—stood surveying the seemingly endless sea of gobbling fowl, as though about to command it to part, make way for her choosing. Mr. Rabinowitz, Turkey Farmer, knowing her only too well, kept his sales pitch to himself.
Like a general choosing a volunteer for a dangerous mission she strode amongst the hysterical fowl until a proud tom, not too old, not too young, in his meaty prime caught her expert eye and his fate was sealed!
She agreed to pay the extra three cents to have him killed but not the five cents to have him plucked and dressed, saying, “What I pay for I keep. Feet good for soup, turkey feather dusters good for de spiderwebs!”
The long table, resplendent, decorated with Hannah’s best linen cloth, its wide border embroidered in a cross-stitch pattern and Mr. Tom, regal, lustrous, his crisp skin glistening mahogany like the chestnuts of his stuffing, yams bubbling beneath their crust of maple sugar, peas nestled against orange carrot wheels, Brussels sprouts, vinegared beets, piled high mashed potatoes dripping gravy, glassy cranberries steam popping their bright skins, pickled watermelon rind put up the summer before—around this bounty stood the men, resplendent in their vested suits, fresh shirts, high collars newly starched, sporting ties. Fritz took his wife’s hand … pulled her to stand by his side and spoke. “Today we think of those who have nothing—no freedom, no home, no work, no food, no one who cares—and we say, ‘Thank you.’ For here, in this house, in this country, we have.” Kissing Hannah’s hand clasped in his, Fritz lifted his eyes. “Amen! Mazel tov! … Now! We eat!”
Years later, far from home, whenever November was about to end, Jane’s memory of her first Thanksgiving would stir, making her long for America and Hannah.
6
“John,” Jane caught him in the hall as he was getting ready to leave. “Just a moment, please. I need to ask you something.” He was hurrying, folding one trouser leg ready for the bicycle clip.
“What?”
“Hannah keeps talking of gifts under a tree and I think she said—hose filled with something, hanging—I’m not sure where. Is that how Christmas is done in America?”
“Yes.”
“The Befana—she doesn’t bring them, here?”
John straightened up, reached for his overcoat.
“You know, I had forgotten about her—it’s been so long.” He smiled at the memory of that hook-nosed hag, riding her broomstick, that brought presents to Italian children long after Christmas day had passed.
“Well? Does she or doesn’t she?” Jane wanted to get it straight.
“In America, witches are only used for Halloween.” He pulled the flaps of his winter cap down over his ears. “I never could understand why anything so ugly and mean would bring presents! But then, most Italian customs so influenced by superstition and the Church don’t make much sense.” He wound his muffler around his neck, tucking in its end. “Stick with Hannah’s menorah and Jolly Saint Nick—that combination is much more fun!”
And he was off, racing down the street, bicycle wheels spinning, slipping on the ice.
Hannah, welcoming any excuse to make of life a festive occasion, took Hanukah, Saint Nicholas, and the birth of Christ and rolled them all into one glorious ecumenical celebration. As December’s darkening skies threatened snow and frost chalked barren trees, the Geiger boardinghouse glowed with joyous anticipation of the holiday season about to begin. Cookie cutters, mountains of them, were unearthed from their boxed lairs, little tin candle holders, their pincers ready for the branches of a pine, were checked, repaired; shepherds, kings, Madonna and Babe unwrapped, reglued, candles counted, all placed by the freshly polished brass Menorah—everything ready and waiting for their moment of individual glory.
Finally the time came for Hannah to make her biannual expedition into the city of Detroit for the essential spices she could not do without. This year taking Jane along, she announced her intentions one evening during supper. “Time for de spices special shopping at Mr. Hirt’s in de city. I will go dis Wednesday—and taking Vifey mit me. So, boys, you on your own!”
Fritz, Carl, John, and Zoltan—who had been through Hannah’s holiday frenzies more than once, knew what to do, what was expected of them. The others were instructed to just follow their leads, and take orders without squabbling. Breakfast would be served at 5:30, a half hour earlier than usual. Those who paid for a daily lunch pail would find theirs ready on the kitchen sideboard as they were used to, but the washing up, drying and tidying of the kitchen that morning would be the boarders’ responsibility, as the ladies needed this time to change into their proper city attire. Later, after their nine-hour shift was done, the men were cautioned not to waste any time getting home, for light housework awaited their attention, as well as the laying of the dinner table, the reheating of Hannah’s supper already prepared—everything to be ready in time for when the ladies of the house returned from their expedition.
Dressed in her store-bought American finery, Jane descended the stairs to find her husband staring up at her. For a moment, she faltered, wondered if he might now forbid her to journey to the city without him. Apprehensive, she pulled on her gloves, buttoning them at the wrist as she arrived to where he stood.
“Ninnie, you look grand!”
Jane held on to the banister, knees gone suddenly wobbly.
Hannah, her already imposing stature enhanced by a voluminous greatcoat, neck wrapped in a ferret’s fur, wearing a merry widow hat on which nestled a bluebird that had seen better days, strode into the hall, carrying an extra pair of galoshes.
“Here, put!” she said, handing them to Jane.
“Oh, Hannah—must I?”
“Yes,” answered John.
Jane sat on the bottom step, pulling on the ugly galoshes over her best shoes, thinking that now her whole exciting effect would be spoiled. Fritz came to bid them good-bye.
“You two enjoy yourselves. Hannachen, you have the money safe? Pick
pockets in the city! Watch the money!”
“And watch out for the white slavers! They fancy tall women. More of ’em, so they fetch a bigger price!” Rudy and Stan doing dishes chorused from the kitchen.
“Don’t take any wooden nickels!” Peter and Carl, getting a jump on bed making, called down from the landing.
Zoltan, wearing one of Hannah’s aprons tied under his armpits, appeared in the hall. “Now, don’t you worry about a thing. I have taken charge so that your orders will be carried out to a T!” and waving his dishcloth in farewell, disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Go already! You’ll miss the tram! Here … take.” Fritz handed Hannah her basket.
Jimmy poked his head out from the parlor he was supposed to dust. “Hannah, I would advise you to take your umbrella—it looks like rain or maybe sleet.”
John handed it to her. “Be careful, the streets are icy.”
“Go!” Fritz pushed them out of the door, closing it quickly against the cold.
Heads down, clutching their hats, bent against the wind, the two women made their way to the Highland Park Inter-Urban Railway trolley stop, only a mile away on Woodward Avenue.
Hannah touched her shoulder, “Next stop us!”
By the time they arrived at the Market Square, it had begun to drizzle its wash of infinite colors muted by the milky grayness of winter light as though covered by a gossamer veil. Without sound or motion, the square would have been like a vast canvas depicting a market day painted by an artist whose eyesight was failing. But sound and motion there was, bringing it into vibrant life. Horses neighed, pushcarts rumbled, beneath long open roofed structures farmers shouted their wares, eulogizing their perfection. Ladies in sealskin coats and stylish hats fingered produce with gloved hands, followed by domestics carrying their baskets; others in shawls and head scarves, carrying protesting children, men in assorted headgear denoting their occupations, others bare-headed in long rubber aprons and gum boots amidst the high-pitched cackle, quack and hiss of penned chickens, ducks and geese. The ebb and flow of continuous sound, the sheer volume of bodies in continuous motion as people in concentrated hurry inspected, searched, evaluated, priced, haggled, moved on, decided, bought, sold, wrapped accompanied by the repetitive clink of coins, their metallic echo enhanced by the cold.
Opening her old umbrella, Hannah hurried across the square towards a large brick building, calling over her shoulder, “Come, Vifey. First we go to Hirt … open market after, maybe.”
With a longing backward glance at the pageantry she wanted to join, Jane followed, doubling her pace so as not to lose sight of Hannah’s bluebird in the milling crowd.
It was so warm in Mr. Hirt’s Aladdin’s cave, the pungent aroma from hanging sausages and hams melded with that of an endless assortment of cheeses and roasted coffee beans. On long electrical cords, single lightbulbs suspended down the length of the store from the ceiling gave off their yellowish glow, contributing to the illusion that all was golden treasure within.
Jane stood on tiptoes, glad her shoes were protected, for already so early in the morning, the sawdust covering the floor had turned to soggy mush. Her eyes ran along rows upon rows of japanned tins in all sizes, wooden boxes of all shapes, stone crocks, earthenware jars, labeled drawers, along laden counters up to the rafters where pots, pans and strainers dangled, crowding each other for any remaining space, down to the rows of open barrels and gunnysacks.
All day they shopped. Their basket becoming heavier as the day wore on. Although Hannah had her select tradesmen in Highland Park, the butchers and fishmongers that were housed in separate buildings bordering the square were visited to look and see what was being offered to fancy Detroiters and at what exaggerated prices. It seemed to Jane that Hannah longed for more than she bought. Coming face-to-face with a mighty carp, so fresh one had the impression one could hear the roar of its sea, she looked it in the eye, murmuring under her breath. “Ach—you beautiful ting. How I would like to take you home mit me, treat you right—make you New Year feast!” then bade him farewell, knowing such a luxury was not to be. Jane, puzzled by such longing for a fish, asked, “Why, Hannah? You like carp that much?”
“In Germany, very important dat fish. For de welcoming of de New Year you gotta have whole fish, head to tail, steamed mit peppercorns, onions, lemons and big bunches of dill. Everybody have to eat it to have good luck. Also goes perfect mit champagne drinking. Next day, no one have de upset stomach—so start de New Year feeling Honkey Dorey. I don’t like carp much, but to be lucky? I eat plenty!”
Now the open sheds were deserted. Amidst mounds of wilting vegetable trimmings and broken crates, the square lay silent. Against a darkening sky, snow was beginning to fall. Tired, yet satisfied, their basket filled with treasures, Hannah and Jane started home. On the way, Hannah pointed out important landmarks, while Jane marveled at the electrical illumination of the city. Everywhere lights were beginning to shine so bright, signs could be read without the slightest difficulty as though it were day. But it was the sight of her first traffic light that impressed Jane the most on that already exceptional day of wonders. The way it stood on its very own island, its conical roof atop a small guardhouse in which a uniformed gentleman waved his white-clad arms at automobiles and trolley cars whizzing in all directions directly below. How, by simply illuminating, changing its three colors, the traffic light took absolute control, commandeered instant response, from men and their machines alike. To think that such an invention should even be necessary was in itself astounding.
When the trolley passed the drugstore where the first ice-cream soda was invented, Hannah became rhapsodic, explaining how it came to be, the shape of the special glass it was always served in, so, as Hannah put it “de foam can have de room to bubble over de ice-cream ball Vifey, I tell you dis also a greatest Detroit invention—so delicious it is, angels would like a sip! Maybe in summertime after de baby come, we go—okay? Den you can have strawberry—my favorite! From de fresh berries, soda gets pink! My treat! … Look, Vifey. See? Dat’s Mr. S. S. Kresge’s big Five and Ten Cent store. In dere everyting costs only dat little. Next time I take you dere … You like today, child?”
Jane nodded, eyes shining.
On their return, supper awaited them. The men beaming, proud of having accomplished all their household duties as instructed, pulled out Hannah’s chair, made her sit, insisted she not lift a finger, have a drink of their beer while they bustled about serving her stew, her noodles, her bread, her pie as though they had prepared it all themselves from scratch. That evening, she regaled them with snippets of the day’s adventure, lauded them for being such good, reliable boys, then reminded them that for the next two weeks, she would not permit the slamming of doors, the making of the slightest drafts—for now that she had her spices, the serious Christmas baking would begin.
The next day, Mr. Henry, sporting a new, ingeniously knitted head covering, with slits permitting only his eyes, nostrils and lower lip to brave the elements, delivered into Jane’s hands the very first letter she had ever received. Allowing himself to be hauled into the kitchen as though defenseless against Hannah’s superior strength, he called back over his shoulder that if Jane was not partial to collecting postmarks, he would be more than pleased to receive the foreign one on her envelope. Leaving the two to their flirtatious banter, Jane raced upstairs, glad that as John had gone with Fritz to a meeting of the German Harmonie Club in the city, she could read her letter in private, not have to share it until later.
In her feathery script, Teresa conferred on her God’s blessing, as she was permitted to write letters, hoped that this one would not only reach America but find Giovanna well. She had entered the Benedictine Order, was now a postulate in its convent in Reims that she might become fluent in French in the pious hope that when she had taken her vows, she might be chosen to serve as a nursing Sister of her order in the Belgian Congo.
Teresa was full of news. Her sisters were married, babies born, others on the way on a regular basis. This depressed her Mamma enormously, as she had always planned to have more than just one nun among her brood of daughters. It did not help that even some of her brothers still hesitated between celibacy and husbandry, although Marcus—surely Giovanna remembered him … the youngest, who never could find work but could juggle four stones all at one time—was now a Franciscan monk. As poverty seemed to suit him, by taking their vow for it, this would give Brother Marcus the sanctified allowance to pursue it further.
Jane chuckled. That streak of off-hand humor that she always found so appealing in her friend was still there and this cheered her.
… I am aware that I have referred to myself in the first person which is a sin—to be confessed, penance done. One reason why the writer of this letter still much too conscious of self, finds it is difficult to communicate on paper, except for news apart from her.
By the time this reaches you, dear friend, your life will have changed in so many ways I cannot even begin to imagine. Has it been as fine, as liberating as you first dreamt it might be? I pray all is well with you. And what about America? It too must be a revelation—life so very different from the quiet shady hours beneath our tree, our wall by the blooms of the oleander. A Sister here, who teaches pharmacology with skill, has told me that oleander is a deadly poison when its bitter leaves are distilled, then ingested. I found that rather disheartening, thinking back to such pleasant innocence experienced in its shade.