by Maria Riva
“Anybody know how the building is going out in Dearborn?” asked Fritz.
“I hear the Boss has already built himself a power house. A real marvel.” Peter poured himself more beer.
“That’s going to be some mansion when they finally get it finished.”
“Limestone, I hear,” observed Fritz as Hannah returned.
“Missus Schneider …”
“Eight-Blocks-Over!!” chorused the men in unison.
“Ach! You boys making de fun of me!” complained Hannah, loving every minute of their familiar banter. “But dat lady, whose name I will not repeat, so dere! She said she heard say Missus Clara Ford will get a boat of her own to go sailing down dat River Rouge, like for de finest lady, she is!”
“I can see it now—Missus Henry Ford, drifting down the river … our very own Cleopatra!” Stan jeered, buttering a thick slice of bread.
“And why not, Mr. All-de-time-Smarty? De queen of Detroit, she is—so? She can go drifting down any river her so important husband gives her! She don’t need no Marc Antony—she’s got a Henry Ford!” and, as though punctuating her proclamation, Hannah sat, and served herself some of her own pot roast.
“How much land do you think he has actually acquired?” asked Zoltan, trying not to laugh.
“Some say it must be at least a thousand acres, others insist it’s more.” John finished his beer.
“Well, with all that untouched countryside at his disposal, Henry Ford will finally get to see enough of his precious birds!” Stan put down his napkin.
“That and their childhood memories is probably why he decided to buy most of Dearborn,” Johann added.
“How long do you think before the Boss and his Missus can move in?”
“I don’t know, Peter.” John leaned back in his chair. “The rumor is at least another year, or it could be not until the beginning of 1916.”
The women began clearing. Henrietta gave her girls permission to leave the table, go play pick-up-sticks in the parlor until it was time for dessert. Jane, hearing the baby’s cry, went to feed him.
Over pie and coffee, the men discussed the new compulsory three-shift rotation system that none of them liked, as well as the latest right of foremen and department superintendents spotting exceptional talent, to relocate such workers to positions where they could serve the company best, which they all approved of. Their own specialized skills having brought them to their elevated positions with Ford, the men welcomed giving those who showed they were capable of more than repetitive, unskilled labor a chance to prove their worth. At the opposite end of the table, the women who could understand each other talked amongst themselves, exchanging tidbits on fashions and household furnishings. Soon it was time to leave, Serafina, knowing Stan would start translating what had been said around the supper table, hoped he wouldn’t take all night explaining what she wasn’t really interested in. To be escorted to her father’s front door, there to be thoroughly kissed—would suffice. Rosie, eager to get to bed, have Carl make love to her, rushed him out of the house, worried they might miss their trolley. Holding the children’s hands between them, Johann and Rudy walked home together, their wives following behind, each carrying one of Hannah’s apple pies.
Fritz began extinguishing lights, securing the house for the night. Zoltan thanked Hannah for yet another delicious meal, reminded her to keep looking out for a letter from his mother announcing the date of her arrival and, waving good night, disappeared upstairs. John cautioned his wife not to take too long changing his son, settling him down, kissed Hannah good night and went to bed. Ebbely followed suit.
Hannah hung the damp dishtowels on the rack to dry, prepared for the next day’s breakfast, while Jane laid the table; wondering if Stan would return, should she lay a place for him, then took care of the baby, carried him in his cradle upstairs to their room. It had been a long day and she was tired. Before falling asleep, she wondered what it would be like, to see pictures moving right before one’s eyes and if Rudy really would take her to see them someday.
“I have bought a house. I am certain it will please you to have a home of your own to take care of. Besides, it is time,” was how John announced the purchase of their first home. Jane recovered sufficiently to ask, “Where?”
“One street down, three blocks over on Louise.” Hannah would still be near, was Jane’s first thought. “Within a month, we will move. Now, with merchants eager to extend credit to Ford employees, furniture can be bought on time. The house has its own indoor bathroom, complete with water closet. On Sunday, we can walk over and I will show it to you.” John left for work.
Jane stood in the center of their room, wondering why this moment was not filled with the elation it warranted. What woman wouldn’t want a house of her own, a husband who could afford to buy one, present it to her on a silver platter without her having to lift a finger? She should be jumping with joy, instead of feeling somehow resentful.
Really Giovanna, she took herself to task. How very ungrateful of you! At least, he did volunteer to show it to you. Maybe he will even let you see the furniture before he buys it on this time—whatever that means! and she hurried downstairs to tell Hannah the news.
Hannah’s eyes filled with tears then insisted so vehemently that they were only ones of joy that Jane knew they weren’t.
“The best thing of all, it’s only one street down and three streets over. I think John said Louise.”
Hannah brushed away the tears and beamed, “Louise? Gott im Himmel! Dat’s only away a hop and a skip! Not serious leaving. So, now Vifey, we both Big Shot house owners!! Good for you, Ninnie and your baby be where you belong. John do right by you. Oh! And all dose extras I keep!! De attic is full of dem. You take, make de house cozy fine and save de money.” Hannah pulled Jane’s arm, “Come, bread on second rising, baby sleeping, ve got time go inspect, see what is hidden. Oy, such excitement! And not yet noon!” Pulling Jane behind her, Hannah hurried to the stairs leading to her attic.
A small house in a row resembling it, its clapboard exterior greenish-gray, front porch gabled, a piece of lawn in a small back yard giving it a grandeur of land owned. Walking through the empty rooms, their peeling wallpaper witness to neglect, Jane felt an aura of desertion as though the house challenged her to prove that she would not. The way station to responsible marriage that Hannah’s home had become was about to end, its shelter of an untried wife removed. Jane, sensing this, was apprehensive. To leave the Geiger house would be like leaving home. Never having had a true one to practice such leave-taking, Jane was uncertain how she could do so with grace. Louise Street might be only one street down and three blocks over, but for Jane, it signified a whole other world.
Stating that covering walls in patterned paper was old fashioned, John refusing to consider samples chosen by Hannah and Jane from out of the catalogs, stripped, plastered, resurfaced the interior of his house, then, when every wall was primed, smooth as glass, allowed everyone to argue over what colors to paint them. As no one, except Johann and Henrietta, had ever lived in a house with painted walls, discussions got quite heated until one Sunday supper, John tapped the side of his water glass, waited for everyone’s full attention, then announced, “My friends, the walls of the house will be warm cream, doors and molding two shades lighter for contrast. Those wishing to help after work may volunteer their services. The loan of ladders will be appreciated. Hannah has promised doughnuts and coffee and my wife, to show her gratitude, has offered to clean the brushes after each evening’s session.”
Although they all believed John would rue his radical departure from tradition by insisting on paint and in such revolutionary shades, all of them were eager to help. Even the wives got involved. Henrietta took care of baby Michael so Jane could work with the spirits of turpentine without Hannah worrying the fumes would affect him adversely. Dora, whose former husband had been a baker, brought flour sacki
ng she had saved, arranged it into protective covering, Rosie pinned up her copper curls and, wielding a brush like a saber, went to work.
Feeling faint from the lead fumes, Frederika went outside, sat on the steps of the porch; calling over her shoulder that if she should be needed, they had but to call to her. Only Serafina stayed away. Stan, having finally made his move, asked for her hand in marriage, set a date, she and her overly large family were busy planning a proper Sicilian wedding.
It was Rudy who brought the shocking news. Actually, it was his wife who announced it in a voice quivering with rage after he barged into the Geiger parlor, shouting for Fritz. “What Rudy? What’s happened?”
“The Archduke Francis Ferdinand has been assassinated!” answered Frederika as though proclaiming a death in her immediate family.
Fritz turned to Rudy.
“How?”
About to answer, Rudy was interrupted by his wife. “He was assassinated in broad daylight! Sophie, his wife, whom I never liked, also!”
“Frederika, shut up! Speak, Rudy! Who did it?”
“A Serb. They were on an official visit in Bosnia-Herzegovina, hell knows why … and one of those God-damned crazy Serbs shot them!”
“Mein Gott! Vhat is going to happen now?” Hannah asked as though dreading the answer.
Rudy shrugged, Fritz slumped into his chair. Frederika removing her gloves, spoke with imperious certainty. “We of the Austrian-Hungarian Empire cannot allow such an act of political murder to go unpunished!”
Rudy sighed, “It could mean war!”
“Of course! That is what they deserve!” stated his wife, surprised that any patriotic Austrian should hesitate.
“Fritzchen,” Hannah sat on the arm of his chair, “do you tink dere could be a war over dis?”
“I don’t know—a real one would be crazy. But, something has been brewing for a long time now, and—maybe this could start it going!”
Rudy nodded. “I think so too. Johann’s coming with the others, said he’d meet us here. Okay, Hannah?”
“Sure. I go make coffee, get tings ready. Stan coming also?”
“Johann said everybody, so …” Hannah nodded, already on her way.
Far into the night they talked, none really believing that it could come to an actual declaration of war over this incident. After all, within the broad spectrum of European history, assassinations were not uncommon and one rather unpopular cousin of the Emperor of Austria, though tragic, would not be considered important enough to cause more than a minor stir. Still, the Serbian revolutionary might just have managed to light the fuse that had been ready-primed for centuries. Being so far away, there was nothing to fear for themselves, yet being of European origin, all were sensitized to repetitive border wars, had left relatives behind, so tensions remained.
Nervous that if something did develop, European mail routes might be affected, Jane wrote to Teresa her long overdue news.
Dearest Teresa,
You have surely taken your final vows by now, may I then still address you so? Or is such familiarity no longer permissible? Please, when you respond, do include some instructions as to protocol of your Order. As you know so well, I never paid much attention to such things in school and this is my first attempt at corresponding with a Benedictine nun.
Much has happened since last I wrote. I have born a son we have named Michele, which is Michael in American. I know this will please you for if not one of the Apostles, at least an Archangel will do. The boy is well named, I think, for whoever meets him seems charmed, immediately at ease, as though he truly had the gift to banish Lucifer. Please note how easily I use such an observation, although I have not changed, forgive me, I still can’t. I do find I now make an effort not to insult the belief of others simply to prove my opinions. Our landlady, Hannah Geiger, is the truest human being I have ever known besides your sweet self. Though she is of Jewish faith, she is neither deceitful nor mercenary. A most astonishing discovery for we were taught they were. Remember? Not even her nose identifies her.
It is the purity of her belief that intrigues me. She seems to embrace all that is good, regardless of religious affiliation. Her God is a friend she trusts. In this simple trusting, she reminds me of you.
My husband has bought us a house. It is most ample luxury, with its own front porch. This protrusion before one’s entrance door is very common here in America. Like our balconies one can sit on it to view what is happening in the street.
People here are given more to privacy than they are in Italy. I don’t mean to imply that there is no curiosity or gossiping, there is of course, but here it seems more selective, more personal, not a daily occupation to be shared by the whole village as though it concerned them. I rather like this unusual personal sense of privacy.
Although he does not discuss such serious subjects with me personally, during discourses with his friends I listen and learn.
My comprehension of American is quite excellent. Though this may sound vain, it is the truth. I can also speak German now, but writing it gives me terrible problems. The pleasure it is to be writing this in Italian, you cannot imagine. Forgive me. I have strayed. The House. It has two bedrooms. Yes, two! Small, of course, but ample. Also a full bathroom, complete and inside the house on the same level as the sleeping quarters! So now you will understand my previous use of the word luxury. The downstairs contains the parlor, a room for dining and a kitchen. There is also another porch which leads to a small plot of land in back, that I hope someday to make into a garden—not simply a place for hanging wash out on the line—as it is done here. It already has a tree that now, being summer, has burst into flower. John says it’s an apple but Hannah insists July is too late, so it must be something else. It looks pretty, no matter what it is. In a place so bitterly cold in winter, summer is welcomed here with great enthusiasm. At this time, they play a special game here that stirs men to frenzy. The participants in plus fours wear strangely shaped mittens of leather, catch and throw balls at each other—and run! When I have learned more of this, I shall write and explain it to you in more detail.
The alarming news of the assassination has reached us. Many are worried that this may lead to some conflict in the Balkans. The sanctuary of your Convent, as well as being in France, you of course are perfectly safe. So are those in Cirié, for John says no matter what may happen, Italy will never become involved. Still, many seem worried for their families’ safety. John’s company employs mostly immigrant laborers, so you can imagine the volume of concern. But surely, nothing will come of all this. After all, the assassination of one Archduke by an insane Serb cannot plunge the whole of Europe into a war! Remember the saying ‘He that lies with dogs, comes up with fleas’? John says that’s the Balkans, so let them scratch themselves and good riddance!
I must close, the baby cries and there is much that must be done before suppertime. So, dearest friend, good-bye. I will await your reply with longing and impatience. As we probably will be moving from here by the end of the month, I enclosed our new address.
Please write to me soon—oh, I wish I had a photograph of you in your habit, devout and perfect as you are.
Affectionately your friend,
Giovanna
The Great War would delay Teresa’s answer by four horrendous years.
Having kept an eye out for a letter addressed to Zoltan bearing a Bulgarian postmark, the morning it arrived, Mr. Henry ran over, caught him just as he was leaving for work.
“Your letter! It’s come!” panted the mailman excited he had made it in time. Zoltan ripped open the envelope, scanned the closely written lines, then sighed with relief.
“This is not from my mother, it is from her brother, my uncle. He says he will personally accompany her on the journey by train, then see her safely onto the ship that is scheduled to dock in New York City on the tenth of August. Mr. Henry, thank you
.” Zoltan shook the mailman’s hand. “This was exceptionally thoughtful of you.” Blushing, Mr. Henry touched the visor of his cap and, waving good-bye, hurried away. Zoltan turned back to Hannah in the doorway. “Of course, this was written before the assassination—still, with such an early date, no matter what trouble may develop, my mother will have gotten away in time. Hannah, I’m off! See you tonight!” Zoltan rushed down the street, hoping he hadn’t missed his trolley.
Stan and Serafina’s wedding day became a summer festival. In the small tented garden of her father’s house, an Italian immigrant of affluence, more than forty close friends and family celebrated. Wine flowed, the pungent aroma of rosemary, sweet basil, oregano mingled with that of sun-dried tomatoes, garlic and cheese—re-creating Sicily in Detroit.
Only Jane and Hannah missed the fun. Baby Michael had colic and Hannah woke that very morning with a touch of lumbago. But, when the men came home, they were told all about it. The bride, the train of her white satin gown carried by her twin sister, Morgana, a mirror image of cascading jet curls and regal carriage. The groom, so nervous that the tips of his heavily waxed moustache seemed to quiver when he repeated the vows as though he might be having second thoughts. There had been a slight disturbance, when one of the stations of the cross fell off the Church wall—but … aside from that, all had been splendid abandon.
Later when they were alone in the kitchen, Hannah, who had been bursting to talk since hearing about the wedding, gave vent to her assessment of the incident in the church.
“Ninnie, you see? What did I tell you? A sign! Dat holy picture falling in de middle of de wedding? DAT was a sign! De saints were knowing what dat girl Serafina really is. All over dat Sicily dey got witches living. I know! Once I had a boarder from dere, burnt chicken feathers right in de room! When I caught him, said he was only curing a cold in his head, but I know dat was not de real reason. When he moved in, he nailed a big black crucifix over his bed—dat got loose, used to slip, turn upside down, so dat poor Jesus Christ stood on his head. Bad enough you get nailed up without being turned topsy-turvy by a Sicilian witch man!”