by Maria Riva
Jane laughed.
Hannah looked surprised, “Boy, dat wasn’t funny. First he got a Mamma all special, mit a halo she walks around, den nobody believes what he tells dem, den at last, he gets some friends dat do; makes mit de fishes and de wine, walks around in sandals doing good and kind … and what he gets for it? Nutting but troubles and meanness! And den, one of dose ‘goodie-good, we love you forever friends’—what’s he do? He sells him to de bad peoples for silver—and not much even. In de end, he even forgives everybody for what dey do to him … can you believe it? Such a good boy!” And Hannah switched her attention from theology to concentrate on her perfectly risen bread.
Running dangerously low on cinnamon and pickling spices for watermelon rind and summer piccalilli, Hannah announced the time had come to once again journey into the city, not only to visit Mr. Hirt’s Emporium but to make good on her promise to introduce Jane to the sublimity of another Detroit invention, the ice cream soda!
In her best summer muslin, wearing her mother’s straw hat freshened up by a stylish length of new navy blue ribbon courtesy of Mr. Montgomery Wards Notions and Trimmings Department, Jane waited in the hall for Hannah to make her appearance. Looking every inch the regal matron in summer white, her winter bluebird concoction replaced by a stylish tricornered felt edged in black, Hanna strode down the hall, calling to Fritz. “As soon as Henrietta comes to get baby, we go. You hear me, Fritz?”
Her husband called down to her from the landing, “I hear you! I hear you! And before you start telling me again, I know what to do! John knows what to do! Zoltan knows what to do and, if Ebberhardt shows up—he knows!”
“Don’t tink Ebbely coming today, yet. So better not count on him.”
John joined Fritz on the landing. “Haven’t got your sixth sense working today, Hannah?”
“Oh, I got it working honky-dory alright, Mr. Know-It-All-New-Papa. Our Ebbely is somewhere near, but not yet all de way. Maybe tomorrow he show or latest next day after.” She pulled on her crocheted gloves. “Where is dat China Dolly?” Just then, Johann’s wife and children arrived to pick up Jane’s baby to look after him until she returned from her special outing.
This time, the Market Square was warm, its summer bounty bathed in sunlight. Everywhere bright colors in profusion, the perfume from freshly cut flowers vying with that of ripe berries and citrus. Inside Mr. Hirt’s, nothing had changed, his Aladdin’s cave untroubled by a change of season, except that filigree cones for ice cream replaced gingerbread and bins of tea for drinking iced stood towards the front, where tins of cocoa powder had stood before.
Their shopping done, Hannah took Jane to the promised rendezvous at Sanders Drugstore, made her climb onto a tall stool that, once balanced upon, made Jane feel very precarious, gave her order to a young man with pimples, and began her instruction on the complicated art of drinking through a straw. Jane, never having seen such a device, hoped she wouldn’t choke and make a fool of herself.
“Sip, Ninnie, sip! And if a strawberry get stuck, reverse—blow de udder way!”
The tallest, most overflowing glass she had ever seen was placed before her. After a few timid tries of the straw, she got it right and tasted—ambrosia!
Beaming, Hannah was watching Jane’s reaction to her treat.
“Oh, Hannah! It’s delicious! Just like you said and it really is pink!”
“Now you nearly one hundred percent American. Next time, I show you hot fudge sundae, maybe even special banana split, but dis, mit de soda, dis de best. Next week when we have de big picnic for de birthday party, I introduce to you frankfurter mit all de fixins.”
Jane licked her long soda spoon.
“Birthday? Who’s having a birthday?”
“Dese United States of America, dat’s who!”
“A whole country has a birthday?”
“Sure. Big important day when de King of England was kicked in de pants and dis wonderful country got free forever after! Everybody celebrates dis day, called Glorious. Red, white and blue—brass bands, no one go to work, everybody play—wave flags, have a good time, forget dere worries, eat till dey bust!”
“When, Hannah—when?”
“Next week. First we prepare, den we pack de wash basket wit de goodies, take de baby, all go out to Belle Island. Right in de middle of Lake Saint Clair it is. Missus Henry Ford, she takes her family dere, so smart it is. What do Italians call, when you eat not inside? Your John once tell me.”
“Al fresco?” Jane pronounced it slowly.
“Dat’s it! John tells me, dat means in de fresh, right?” Jane nodded. “So, here, in de park, we spread out de tablecloth, unpack de basket, de potato salad, de deviled eggs, de crispy chicken, summertime huckleberry pies, big treat—all de tings we can have because dis country give us plenty and have grand Old Glory birthday in de American-Fresh!” For Jane, Hannah and Fourth of July picnics became inseparable. A special time not often repeated, yet held on to in memory as something precious, to be treasured.
10
On July 28, the Austro-Hungarian Empire declared war on Serbia. A declaration was one thing, but an actual war seemed too far-fetched as yet. Allies on both sides watched, played their secret political games, and waited.
In Detroit, Henry Ford announced that if his company exceeded the sale of three hundred thousand Model Ts by the first of August of the following year, it would refund each owner a percentage of the purchase price. The first rebate offer in automotive history, this, once again, claimed banner headlines across the country; its impact on the public, reinforcing the opinion it had formed with the Five-Dollar-Day, that Henry Ford’s generosity as well as his business acumen was unique, beyond all conception.
But, ever cautious Fritz was doubtful. “Wait till next year—then we’ll see!”
“Oh, he’ll do it. No doubt in my mind—whatsoever,” declared John.
“You mean we’ll do it,” Fritz corrected.
“We, he, what’s the difference?” John looked surprised.
Zoltan put down his newspaper. “In a way, John’s right, you know. The Ford Company is us—the Ford men …” Leaning back in his chair, he mused, “Three hundred thousand Ts, sold by the summer of 1915 … you think that’s possible, John?”
“For the Universal Car? The most reliable automobile ever built for the lowest price? You want to lay a small bet?”
“What are the new price cuts for this year’s production?”
“The retail tag for the Model T Runabout is four hundred dollars. For the Touring, four hundred and ninety, and the Town Car is down to six hundred and fifty dollars.”
“My God, that’s a sixty-dollar reduction on each!”
“It just proves what a moving assembly system can accomplish.” Fritz lit his pipe. “If we can deliver and the dealers do it, I still think this new scheme of Ford’s will cost him a fortune!”
“No, he’ll make a fortune! And, such publicity is beyond price!” John blew a spiral of perfect smoke rings.
“Yes, it’s something all right.” Zoltan folded his paper. “A man buys himself an automobile worth much more than he has to pay for it—and then gets a repayment for doing so? You’re right, John, that is a terrific idea!”
As war clouds gathered across Europe and countries mobilized, President Wilson proclaimed the United States a neutral nation with no affiliations, cautioned the country to be impartial in thought as well as in action, and, for outings at his summer home, acquired his own Tin Lizzie.
Rumpelstiltskin returned quite exhausted, complaining that if John’s patron saint didn’t begin putting automatic starters into his motorcars as standard equipment, he would undoubtedly succumb to ruptures of various internal organs. Hannah fussed over her Ebbely, made him chicken soup, whipped a raw egg into a glass of hoarded port, made him drink it down, then tried to bundle him off to bed.
“B
ut, my dear lady, how can you be so cruel! Order me to slumber before I have had a chance to see our baby still residing here? Never! Just a tiny peek is all, I swear, then—and only then—shall I obey, welcome soft oblivion between your deliciously lavender scented sheets!”
“Ah, my Ebbely! De house was getting so empty. Now you back, much better de feeling is.”
The little man kissed her hand, wished everyone peaceful rest, scurried upstairs for his peek at the only member of the household smaller than he.
Shortly after Rumpelstiltskin’s return, Hannah’s nephew arrived, having made the journey from his home in Germany in record time. Heinz-Hermann had the look of someone newly scrubbed with a very hard brush, then rubbed dry with a very coarse towel without needing to have it done to him. His skin a natural raw pink, bristle corncob-colored hair, his bluish eyes so light they resembled watered milk. Built like a tree trunk with as little agility, it seemed utterly impossible he could be related to Hannah.
“It’s de papa. He comes from Prussia—dat’s up in de north where all are so,” she would explain whenever her nephew’s appearance startled someone. Very resentful that he had been shipped off to a strange land when his country might need its young men to protect it from vile aggression from the decadent French, possibly even the arrogant English, Heinz-Hermann seethed, disguising his inner anger with outward servility. Rumpelstiltskin took an instant dislike to the young man who tried to please without selection, finding ever-new ways to ingratiate himself with everyone in the Geiger household. The unimpressionable little man presented an ongoing challenge to Heinz-Hermann’s talent to fawn. He polished his little shoes, offered to wash his flivver, even ran to fetch Ebbley’s evening paper for no recompense, but nothing deterred the traveling salesman from his original, almost instinctive aversion. What surprised Jane was that for once Hannah left this situation to simmer on its own, doing nothing to smooth it over as was her want.
With so many gone, in the evenings the parlor had an incomplete air, discussions few, mostly centered on giving explanatory answers to inquisitive questions asked by Heinz-Hermann from the hard chair he had chosen, saying that as he was employed as but a lowly sweeper on the machine shop floor, he should not rate one of the padded ones belonging to Ford men of higher station. Such servility usually made Zoltan sneeze, escape behind his paper, while Rumpelstiltskin gritted his teeth, already safely hidden behind his.
“Herr Fishbein,” Heinz-Hermann, his knowledge of English sufficient to address him as Mr., never did. All men were Herr, all women Frau. When a German word would do, its English equivalent, even when known, was ignored. It was as though the young man did this on purpose, for what reason no one could fathom, except that maybe irritating others gave him a certain pleasure.
John and Fritz took as little notice of Hannah’s relative as he made it possible to be. After all, he was still so young, surely he would grow out of this rather annoying phase of raw youth.
Suddenly, to have a presence that disturbed, permeate the comfort of her house, made Hannah irritable. Her nephew’s ever-ready verbal dislike of his mother, even more so. She now kneaded her bread dough with an angry hand, as though she was slapping him, instead of it. When Jane asked why the boy should feel so towards his mother, Hannah shrugged, explaining that perhaps he was only mimicking his father’s attitude. Being a Prussian with a Jewess for a wife had never seemed to please him; Hannah had often wondered why he had chosen to marry her sister in the first place.
“Strange man, dat butcher,” Hannah sighed, as though the subject was better left aside. “He has a good shop. Makes de sausages perfect, wit gentle touch so careful he is, den, come home and hit. My sister Anna never say a word about it, but I know. Once, he smash her Passover plate our mamma hand down to her. Now, she never do de feast no more.” Hannah shook her head as though to clear it of troubled memories. “Now, what you say—we make strawberry rhubarb pies for Sunday supper treat, get me cheerful! Okay?”
“Theophany!” cried Serafina as she stormed into the parlor, startling the men recuperating from their strawberry rhubarb pie consumption.
Always slightly embarrassed by his wife’s dramatic entrances and exits, having been interrupted while in deep discussion with John, Stan glowered. Unfazed, his bride strode over to him and, jet eyes blazing, intoned, “Stanislav Bartok! Do you comprehend? Theophany! God has spoken onto a chosen one—ME!”
“Congratulations,” murmured Zoltan from behind his paper.
Serafina whipped around in his direction. “Sarcasm? Was that sarcasm?”
“Stan, there is about to be a war, one that may eventually involve the nations of the world. I am trying to read the latest developments. Please, try to control this oracle!” Zoltan rustled his paper.
Serafina shrieked, “Control! I’ll give you control! But first, I will offer a warning … hear me, Doubter! Watch your feet! Your FEET! Zoltan! When they begin to bleed, remember … !”
“Serafina!” Stan had a way of speaking in measured monotone to his excitable wife that reminded one of a trainer gentling a wild horse. “Tell me what has excited you. But, do it quietly. After all, this is Hannah’s house and here we are guests. Even if the gods have chosen to do you the honor of speaking to you, let us remember our manners.”
John suppressed a laugh, his eyes warning the others to do the same. It had amused all of them to see the revolutionary within their group becoming the Fatherly Sage by virtue of having acquired an erupting volcano for a wife. Sensuous mouth pouting, fires momentarily banked, Serafina curled herself into Stan’s lap and, in a whisper that reached every corner of the room, an ever-astounding talent of hers, meowed, “Italy will remain undecided and next spring, we will have twins!”
“My God! She’s right!” Zoltan exclaimed.
“Which one?” Rumpelstiltskin asked innocently.
“Italy—I just read it!”
As no one thought they could take this further without laughter, forced silence descended on the parlor. Serafina, recovered from her visionary epiphany as though it had never occurred, rocked Jane’s baby, singing him songs in a dialect both savage and lyrical.
In anticipation of his mother’s arrival, Zoltan moved to accommodations in the city, assuring Hannah he would never absent himself from her Sunday suppers.
“Zoltan, you sure?” Hannah already missing him, asked anxiously.
“Hannah, here was my first home in America. I can never forget it, nor you. I will come. I promise.”
“And you bring your Mamma?”
“We’ll see. Perhaps.” Zoltan kissed her cheek and left. From the porch, Hannah watched until he disappeared, then reentered her house, closed its door, murmured, “Anudder gone,” and slowly walked back to her kitchen.
By the middle of August, war was a reality. Powerful countries had chosen their allies, mobilized their youth who marched off to do glorious battle, believing God was on their side alone, making their cause just, themselves invincible. Euphoric patriotism was the order of the day—gallant bravery its password. The men of the Ford Motor Company, which employed immigrants from more than twenty different nations, became involved if not in body, by emotional ties to their homeland and families left behind who now faced a time of war, while they secure, well paid and safe lived the good life far removed from strife. As on the battlefields, national loyalties within the plant formed sides. Disruption of friendships, trust, the camaraderie so lauded previously so obvious that had existed on shop floors, began to erode.
Now during many evenings of their working week, the onetime boarders sought once more the Geiger parlor to discuss these disturbing times; seek comfort in old friendships.
Carl lit his pipe. “My Germans hate the French, the French hate them, my Russians hate the Germans, the Germans hate the Russians as well as every Pole. The Slovaks haven’t decided who to hate yet, and so it goes all the way down the line …”<
br />
“Yesterday, someone called me an Austrian bastard who started it all,” said Rudy, quite upset.
“Must have been a Serb,” Ebbely commented.
“I heard someone sang ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’ on the loading platform.” Stan looked around the room.
“Yes, and then others countered with ‘God Save the King,’ even the Rumanian anthem. We nearly had trouble out there,” Peter shook his head.
“Where is this all going to end?” asked Fritz.
“We certainly can’t allow any of it to interfere with production,” answered John.
Carl relit his pipe. “I agree. We have to calm the men down.”
Rudy turned to Johann. “Any trouble in your section? Anybody call you a name behind your back yet?”
“Little neutral Holland? I’m lily white—so is John, as long as Italy stays out.”
“Well, I was called a dirty Hun and I don’t like it! I’m American. I’ve got my first papers already.”
“Fritz,” John reached over to pat his shoulder, “don’t let this get under your skin.”
“Ja—we all have to ride this through. This war won’t last long anyway.”
Ebbely jumped down off his chair.
“If it is any consolation, my friends, remember that no matter what side they are on, everyone loathes the Serbs for starting this whole brew-ha!”
“Too convenient, Ebbely.”
The little man stopped from exiting, turned. “What is that in reference to, dear Zoltan?”
“The assassination was a convenience—only a convenience, to a war ready to happen.”
Ebbely saluted. “When Zoltan is right, he is irrefutable. I stand corrected. Oh, come on! Enough of this talk. I leave tomorrow to entice the fair magnolias of Southern pulchritude to encase their so soft femininity within the confines of my latest line of ephemeral corsetry. For this I need my thoughts to be pure, a pastoral landscape of idyllic symmetry. Speculations on human brutality tend to play havoc with necessary illusion. So I bid you all, adieu!”