You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  Not stopping to answer, John ran back into the hall, bellowing. “Fritz! Come up! Where’s Carl? Is Zoltan here?”

  “Where’s the fire?” Fritz appeared from below.

  “My God, you’ve got to see it! You gotta see it to believe it! Hurry, put your coat on and come. We’ve got to get the others—Hannah—who’s home?”

  “Rudy, Stan.” Hannah never wasted words when an emergency seemed to be in progress, turned to Jane. “You see Zoltan?”

  “He was in his room.”

  “Ninnie—get him down here.” Jane hesitated. “Move!”

  “John, if I find any of the others you …”

  “Anybody! Tell them to get down here—NOW!”

  Jane ran. Within minutes the boarders were assembled in the hall, John throwing their overcoats at them.

  “Don’t ask questions! Put them on. It’s freezing out there—and follow me to the plant. You got to see this!”

  The door slammed behind them—they were gone. Hannah snapped into action.

  “Okay, we go make coffee. Big pot—get ready for what’s coming, maybe trouble.”

  Jane followed her into the kitchen.

  “What trouble?”

  “Who knows! But dat excited no man gets witout a big reason. So we prepare, den wait till we get to know what de big fuss is. Maybe we better bring de big pot mit my chicken soup also in case dis is serious.”

  Waiting, neither concentrating on what they were actually doing, Jane darned a sock that didn’t need to be, Hannah tidied what was tidy. Time dragged. They began preparing for the evening meal, unsure if it would be eaten.

  Faces flushed, eyes tearing from the cold, inner excitement making their words tumble over each other, still in their hats and coats, the boarders strode into the kitchen crowding the doorway.

  “Hannahchen,” his voice hoarse, Fritz pulled off his cap, twisting it in his hands. “What I have seen today, never never will I forget!”

  “My God! You should see it! It …” Rudy searched for words.

  Zoltan collapsed onto a kitchen chair, utterly speechless.

  “As far as the eye could see, men—thousands of men!” Jimmy, hand shaking, swept the air.

  “The whole length of Manchester, around and down Woodward, jam-packed with men waiting for the hiring to begin. An unbelievable sight!” Carl looked at John. “You know when they got there?”

  “I saw them at dawn, but they started arriving long before that.”

  Johann shook his head in disbelief.

  Pulling off his gloves, Stan asked, “Got any idea how many, John?”

  “One of the reporters said fifteen thousand.”

  “Gott im Himmel!” Hannah gasped, looking at Fritz.

  “Ja, looked like could be that many. Fifteen thousand! My God! What’s going to happen? We can’t use that many new men! But what a sight! Never, if I live to be a hundred, will I ever forget. There are more people outside our plant than in the whole village I come from!”

  “Mine, too!” Peter agreed.

  “And mine.” Stan strode into the hall to hang up his coat and cap, the others talking amongst themselves followed him. Hannah heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Well—dat’s over! Tank de heavens no big trouble—only big excitement … so we get going mit de supper—boys will tell us more later. Vifey, you please start mit de potatoes mashing. I do de gravy.” Banging pots and pans, she muttered, “Gott im Himmel! What a day! Every day someting new getting everybody topsy-turvy!”

  Monday, January 12, in the darkness of a bitter winter dawn, an icy wind swirling snow, the thermometer registering two above zero, some four thousand Ford employees wearing their identity badges, returned to work. Arriving at the plant, six thousand job seekers, having waited throughout the freezing night for the hiring to begin, surged towards them hoping to gain admittance, get inside the plant behind them. Police in place ever since the first announcement of the Five-Dollar-Day, and Ford security guards who had been circulated undercover amongst the crowd, now sprang into action using any means at hand to beat back the tidal wave of desperate men. Hemmed in, surrounded, the Ford workers, determined to hold on to their jobs, clock in on time for their morning shift, began fighting their way towards the only entrance that had been opened for them. The angered mob pushed forward, blocking their advance and a full riot was underway. The fire brigade, called out, rushed to the Ford plant. As men began scaling the tall factory gates shut against them, the order was given to train the fire hoses on them, douse them with water, force them down. In that bitter cold, as the water hit, it froze. Like human icicles men hung, where they had been hit and on the streets below, the mob went wild! Stampeded, rushed the hoses, overturned, trampled the lunch and tobacco stands that serviced Ford employees, hurled bricks, smashed windows, attacked anything that stood in their way. By the time the Ford men were able to gain the safety of the plant, many were bloodied, their clothing ripped, their badges lost.

  The news that a riot had occurred at the plant traveled like wildfire along the grapevine of the Ford wives. When Missus-Schneider-eight-blocks-over ran with the news, Hannah’s first reaction was typical. She offered her a nice cup of coffee, accompanied by a baked-this-morning doughnut, listened calmly as the frightened woman gulped out what she had heard. Giving no indication of her own fear, Hannah reassured her that as her Bruno was one of Fritz’s men, she should take heart—all her worries were groundless, for her Fritz always took care of his men, then gently shoved the distraught lady out.

  “Dat woman—fluster, fluster, fluster! Good midwife. When pulling out de babies, she’s fine—but all udder times? Too nervous making!” Seeing Jane’s worried face, she motioned her to sit. “Come, Vifey, fearing inside not good for your baby. We have coffee, a little nosh of someting sweet, keep busy, wait for boys. Time enough to hear trouble den.”

  The men came home in silence. Without comment, John handed Jane his torn coat. Taking it, she wondered how she could possibly repair it in time for him to wear it to work the next day. Their voices strangely hushed, Rudy and Stan asked if she would have a look at theirs, see what could be done. Peter touched the bandage above his eye, as though he couldn’t remember why it was there. Carl kept looking at the blood down the sleeve of his overcoat, wondered aloud if it would wash out. As though in passing, Zoltan mentioned his scarf was lost. Jimmy, that his derby had been trampled. Their voices low, as though not wanting to disturb someone asleep, they had about them a lethargic calm like that of shock.

  Without acknowledging the two women, they climbed the stairs and disappeared into their rooms. Worried, Jane started to follow, Hannah stopped her. “No, child. Not now. Dis looks like man alone time. When someting very wrong in de soul, dey always creep away. Like de animals do, to lick de wounds. Women talk out big troubles—but men, dey brood. Tonight for sure is my chicken soup!”

  By the time they had settled into their parlor chairs, the men were back. This evening Hannah for once ignoring her kitchen, stayed in the room by Fritz. Lighting his pipe, Carl complimented her on the soup.

  “Hit the spot, Hannah. Just right, just what we all needed.”

  For a while there was silence. Then Stan took the bull by the horns.

  “Okay! Anybody here know what idiot called out the fire brigade?”

  “Who knows?” Rudy sounded relieved that what was troubling them had been brought out into the open.

  “I heard that long before hiring began, there were Ford agents milling amongst the crowds during the night, secretly handing out employment slips to those they decided qualified. Anyone else hear that?” Johann asked.

  “If that is true, no wonder those poor bastards were angry. They had every right to be!”

  “But not go on a rampage like that, Stan!”

  “Why not? You travel hundreds of miles, probably hidden in some stinking box
car, no food, maybe not even water, finally get yourself to Highland Park and—what do you find? You find there are thousands just like you already there before you! So now you stand for endless hours in zero weather, no overcoat, not even a blanket, nearly freeze to death so you can hold your place in line—THEN, some son of a bitch hires a guy a mile behind you because he likes his looks?! Jeez!”

  “More likely because he found one who spoke English!” Rudy added.

  “Who said ‘Desperate men resort to desperate action’?” Jimmy lit his pipe.

  “Don’t know, but it was sure true today!” Fritz sighed.

  “I thought I was going to be trampled along with my poor derby!”

  “Me, too.”

  “I was scared,” said Peter, like a small boy.

  The men nodded. Zoltan looked about the room.

  “Today was a disgrace—should not have happened!”

  “Who already had the police there?” Johann wanted to know.

  “They’ve been there every day since the announcement,” Rudy answered him. “And why was only one entrance open? We couldn’t move our men inside fast enough!”

  Carl looked at Fritz. “Where, in God’s name, was Couzens? He could have talked some sense into them!”

  “He must have been there.”

  “And where the hell was the Boss?”

  “He’s still in New York City for the auto show.”

  “No. He came back this morning.” John ground out his cigarette.

  Zoltan got up from his chair. “You watch—the papers will leave nothing out. They’ll describe every lurid detail, state it was a disgrace! And Henry Ford himself will be held accountable for the way his company handled the whole shocking situation. I’ve had enough! I’m off to bed.” And he left.

  The others got ready to follow. Peter looked at John, and said, “Tomorrow—I got no badge.”

  “I have mine, Peter. I’ll take you in.”

  The Riot, as it became known, once discussed, dissected, evaluated by the senior Ford men, was never referred to again. Like a deep splinter once removed, after a while the place it had entered became nondiscernable, yet remained ever tender to the touch. To retain their loyalty to the company and its founder, it was best left alone.

  But neither riots nor rumors could dampen the nation’s enthusiasm for their new hero. Every day brought new accolades for the man who now symbolized the reality of the American Dream. When Henry Ford was quoted as having told a New York reporter that he believed dying rich was a sin, the nation’s newspapers had another field day. The man who was about to bring mass production into the industrial workplace so suited legend that at times even truth seemed it must be pure invention. Humble farm boy, childhood repairer of watches, youthful wage earner, trusted employee of the great Alva Edison, skilled mechanic, brilliant engineer, tireless dreamer, inspired inventor, champion of the common man, the self-made millionaire! Even Ford’s appearance suited the mold of an American icon. His gaunt frame, those slightly haggard features, the eagle gaze hinting melancholy, conjured an uncanny resemblance to Lincoln.

  John, devouring the newspapers that each day found something new, exciting and exhilarating about the man and his company, preened as though he alone had been aware of true greatness, long before others had discovered it. Mr. Ford this and Mr. Ford that became the basis of most of his conversation. Sometimes, when her husband spoke of his idol, Jane was reminded of Father Innocente giving his most fatuous Lenten sermon. No matter how great and glorious Henry Ford might be, God he was not! But Jane had the impression that John didn’t quite realize the truth of that and, if ever confronted, wouldn’t be able to accept it. It was in one of these moods of rebellion that she decided to put a halt, once and for all on the constant, irritating supply of McGuffey readers. She was trying to think of a way to broach this delicate subject when, while getting dressed one morning, John did it for her.

  “How are you getting on with your new McGuffey reader?”

  “I just finished ‘Don’t Kill the Birds.’”

  “That’s one of Mr. Ford’s favorite lessons. He is very partial to birds,” adding, as he pulled on his trousers, “he’s a very keen bird-watcher, you know.”

  Jane, plaiting her hair, was relieved he didn’t ask her opinion of the lesson she had found excruciatingly boring. Feeling it was now or never, she plunged, “John, please do not bring me any more McGuffeys.” John, stuffing in his shirttail, stopped and stared. “Really, I can read English very well now, so they are no longer necessary.” She hoped that would do.

  “Very well, Ninnie, if you are so certain you are really that advanced, I’ll bring you one of Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson’s. Mr. Ford admires him greatly as well.”

  She thanked her husband for his continued interest in her education in a tone so glacial, John stopped what he was doing, and watched as his wife left their room. Deciding he had married a most confusing woman he rarely understood, he resumed tying his tie, not overly concerned.

  “Ach, dere you are, Vifey!” Hannah handed Jane a bowl of eggs. “Here, please beat!” Jane attacked the yolks as though they could do her harm. “Enough, enough already! I ask you beat—not kill!” Hannah retrieved her bowl, spooned sugar onto the still quivering mass, gave it a very gentle stir. “My, my … storm clouds around here heavy dis morning … de trouble, I should know about?”

  “Mr. Ford this and Mr. Ford that …”

  “What? You angry with de Boss?” Sheer disbelief made Hannah’s voice rise an octave higher.

  “No! Not really. It’s John. Oh, it’s everybody! Every time somebody opens their mouth, it’s ‘how wonderful, how great, how perfect.’ Everybody behaves like Henry Ford is God Almighty!”

  “Well, not really—but close.”

  “You see! Even you! What gets into people?” Jane wasn’t really expecting an answer but Hannah gave her one anyway. “Sure me! De poor eggs you just beat de stuffing out of, Mr. Henry Ford—he got dem. Dis nice warm kitchen we are in—he give us. De house, a safe roof over our head, he make it possible—and why? Because he have a special brain dat gives him great ideas—so he can build a company big as a whole country where many people like my Fritz and your John can work, be proud. And now, even going to get highest pay ever in de whole state of Michigan, even whole East and West! So, you tell me, why not ‘hooray Mr. Henry Ford’?”

  “I’m sorry, Hannah. You’re right. I was just … how do you say it … fed up?”

  Hannah wiped flour off her hands with her apron. “Dat’s okay—expecting makes cranky. And mit your John, I tink you got maybe a point. Sometimes when he talks, he sounds like one of de twelve Apostles and Mr. Ford his Holy Man. But don’t worry, your man know de difference between de one up in Heaven and de one on de Earth he work for.” Hannah slid her cake into the oven, secured the latch of its iron door. “Boys will like dis cake … now we are rich, I put in currants. Now I start de meatloaf—you scrape de carrots.” On her way to the back porch to get the meat from the icebox that now it was winter was referred to as “keeping box,” she called back over her shoulder, “Vifey—you know, it is better have a husband in love mit his work den mit another woman instead of you.” Reentering the kitchen, she gave Jane a look, see if her words had sunk in. Then, satisfied that they had, got busy chopping onions, pleased by the beginning signs of jealousy she had detected in this untried wife in her care.

  7

  Naked to the waist, dressed only in his trousers, John was shaving. Already dressed, Jane was making the bed. Outside their window, pale February sun seemed to be trying its best to give the impression of a sunny day.

  “Ninnie,” John stopped to sharpen his razor along the worn strap. Jane waited for him to continue. “If the weather holds, I thought being Sunday, we might walk over to the plant. I remember I promised to show it to you one day. Would you like to go?”

  “Oh,
yes! Please!”

  “Hannah said a mile is not too far, would even do you good.” John went back to shaving his upper lip.

  Feeling the dragging weight of her pregnancy, secretly Jane would have welcomed a shorter distance but her eagerness to finally see where all the wonders were taking place outweighed her physical discomfort.

  Hannah having bundled her up as though she was embarking on a Polar expedition, Jane arrived, red of nose but warm inside, at the corner of Woodward Avenue and Manchester Street and time stopped! Her breath caught in her throat—for a suspended moment she had the feeling she might fall—then recovered sufficiently to realize what her eyes were seeing.

  Oh, John had been right! Nothing, nothing could prepare one for a sight such as this! This was not a factory—this was a world of its own! Giant, endless, overpowering, magnificent! Buildings that seemed to have no end stretching towards their own horizon, walkways, chutes, inner streets, loading docks, railway yards, boxcars, trains, and locomotives, power house—its mighty funnels soaring towards the sky, water towers, each emblazoned with the distinctive emblem of one man’s signature! All this vast grandeur for just one chunky little motorcar named Lizzie!

  John hadn’t taken his eyes off his wife since their arrival. Her enthralled amazement delighted him—women so often lacked the imagination necessary to appreciate wonders such as this. Grinning, he poked her shoulder to waken her. Incredulous eyes shifted to his face. “You? And Fritz? And Carl and Zoltan and the others? You come here?”

  Laughing, John pointed to the mile-high letters on top of the mammoth main building.

  “Ninnie, what does that say?

  “THE FORD MOTOR COMPANY,” breathed Jane.

  “So? Do I work here?”

  “Oh, Giovanni! Now I understand why you can’t wait to get here. Why you rush so in the mornings! If I could build something marvelous here, I would rush too!”

  And John took her in his arms and kissed her and when they walked back home, he held her hand tucked inside the pocket of his overcoat.