by Maria Riva
Jimmy
For a while, no one spoke—then Johann asked, “When was it mailed?”
“Three and a half weeks ago.”
“He could be fighting by now …”
“Ja,” Fritz sighed, “we better not tell Hannah … wait a little till we hear further, okay?”
John nodded as the women arrived, announcing it was late, time to go home.
In time for Thanksgiving, Jane finished the parlor drapes. Up on the ladder, John waited for her to approve the height of the rod he had put up. Jane stepped back to admire her handiwork.
“Well? Are they hanging straight now?” John was getting impatient.
“Yes, thank you. It does require two to hang drapes properly, you’re right.”
“I want to take a look.” He came down and stood beside her. “Ninnie, these are beautiful! How did you ever match the colors? And those folds—how they hang—as though they have weights!”
“They do! I found an old bicycle chain in Fritz’s basement. He cut it in half for me and Hannah helped me boil it in Sal soda and vinegar to get the oil off. I sewed the lengths into the bottom hems.”
“Great idea. It works. I’m proud of you, Ninnie! Beautiful work—just beautiful!” And he went to put the ladder away.
Jane stood where he left her, feeling very satisfied.
As their home took shape, so did their relationship. Imperceptibly, John began the delicate process of loving his wife. As Jane became accustomed to loving him for what he was, he loved her for what he needed her to be or thought she was. As with most such marriages, theirs resulted in benign comfort. Occasionally, he would make love to her—but not so often as to disturb. Actually, Jane found the term making love a strange misnomer for an act not in need of it to function. For sexual enjoyment, John looked elsewhere. It did not occur to him that this might be a breach of faith. He was a virile man in his prime, from a culture that made great distinction between the sanctity of the home, the wife’s domain, and the relaxation to be found in the domain of an accommodating woman. America might change an immigrant’s language, work ethic, and monetary stature but most likely not the accepted, approved behavior of his original culture. Happiness being dependent on individual perception of it, John and Jane were happy. That neither needed the other’s happiness to achieve their own, this state as yet was a void they both were completely unaware of. Hannah, wanting, at least for their son, a home of discernible love to grow within, watched, worried it might never be.
11
It was nearly Christmas, when Mr. Henry, his Casanova attractiveness once again hidden behind layers of wool, sounded his knock, smiled with his seductive eyes at Jane’s eager expectation, handed her a letter from out of a woolen paw.
“Missus Jane, although sent to Hannah’s, I have brought you joy at last! Now, I must run!” and disappeared in a swirl of fresh snow.
Chere Giovanna,
Do not faint from surprise. This is Eugenie, your French shipboard acquaintance. What a relief! What delirious joy it is to write once again my mother tongue, you cannot in your wildest dreams imagine. Why is it that Americans are still such barbarians as this pertains to the finer accomplishments of civilized life? Not once, since our arrival to these shores, have I encountered someone who has acquired the grace, the culture of speaking French. Oh, well, what one cannot alter, one must learn to accept. Though I find this a strain, I endeavor to follow my belle Maman’s schooling and remain ever conscious that being a lady born, one must not be seen to complain, that being a weakness of the masses.
Oh, how I waited and waited that anguished day upon the quay and to no avail. Deserted, forgotten, poor little Eugenie me, abandoned, by one if not entrusted with my whole heart exactly, at least in possession of this pure maiden’s trust. So, there I was. Well, you can imagine, quelle horreur, the utter tragedy of it. Me, in my beautiful rose-trimmed hat, forlorn, tears wetting my pale cheeks, not knowing what to do, where to turn, when suddenly, from out of the gathering dusk, a voice, a gentleman’s voice asked my name and, looking up, I beheld an older man seemingly much concerned about my welfare. By the cut of his suit, he wore spats that were immaculate, carried a silver handled walking stick, it was obvious he was a gentleman of distinction and an affluent one at that. His advanced age added to my confidence to reply a soft “yes” to his question if he could be of service. We have been together ever since. I have my own apartment, two spacious rooms which I have decorated in palest pink with touches of lavender accents. I don’t do much. I mostly wait. I would so like to journey to a place called New Orleans. Do you know it? They say there everyone speaks French, is very gay and devil-may-care. Perhaps some day, who knows.
If this reaches you, please if you wish, answer me to the name and address below. Here in Charleston, the newspapers talk of a Famous Henry Ford of Detroit. Is he the same man you told us employed your husband? If so, how nice for you. Money is so very important for a splendid existence.
Cordially yours,
Eugenie de la Rochemont
When Jane showed her letter to John, she couldn’t understand why he frowned, asked if she planned to answer it and, when she said she intended to, told her it would be better if she didn’t—for her not to get involved. Having shown her husband Eugenie’s letter in order to share it with him, not be given advice on her subsequent action concerning it, Jane put it away—until she could find the time to write a nice long reply and when Rumpelstiltskin returned, she planned to ask him that should he ever be passing through the Carolinas to please stop off in Charleston to pay Eugenie a visit, for, judging by her letter, she surely was one who lounged.
Through its frosted windows, the Geiger boardinghouse had that special holiday glow. Despite the absence of most of her Boys, Hannah bustled about preparing for her Hanukah-Christmas celebration. It wouldn’t be too lonely, for Johann with his family, Rudy with his wife had promised to come over for Christmas Eve, and of course, John and Jane with their Michael would be coming. Even Ebbely might return in time to join in the festivities, for he too had promised.
John and Jane shielding Michael wrapped in many shawls, plowed their way through the snow to the Geiger house. Hannah, watching for them, flung open the door as they reached the front porch.
“Quick! Unwrap! De others here already. Ebbely too. Wait till you see de big surprise I got! A wonder! Never in all de days of my life I ever dream to have such a present! Quick!” She pulled them towards the parlor. “Come! See what my Fritz give me!” And there, against the parlor wall, it stood in all its splendor. Rumpelstiltskin spun its stool, sat, placed his little feet on the pedals and, reaching up to the keyboard, launched into a clarion rendition of “Take Me Back to Ol’ Virgini.”
“An upright! How marvelous! Fritz, you old devil, you never told me you were getting one!” John exclaimed.
Beaming, Fritz took him aside, “Got it on time. But don’t tell Hannah. You know how she is about owing. Great, eh? It’s a Windsor. Came complete with stool and piano shawl. The keys are real ivory, but the rosewood casing … that’s imitation.”
“How much?” whispered John.
“One hundred and seventy!”
“Jesus!”
“It’s forever! Don’t tell your Jane—you know how those two are together, like sisters.”
Rumpelstiltskin finished with a thundering flourish, spun himself up like a top, jumped off in mid-rotation, held out his arms for Michael, who, recognizing him, shrieked with delight. Hannah ran her hand over the shining surface of her treasure as though still not convinced it actually stood in her parlor, and wouldn’t vanish in a puff of a conjurer’s smoke.
“Hannah, it’s magnificent! Now we will have music for Christmas.” Jane wished she knew how to play.
“Ebbely says he knows all de carols, even de latest hits, also dat Mr. Stephen Foster and de new ‘Naughty Marietta’ one, like de band
s play in de park in summertime. Wish de others were here …” Getting sad she turned, went out to fetch the frosted gingerbread and cider.
Stan’s unexpected arrival was probably the highlight of this already most special evening. When a mighty honk reverberated down the silent snowbanked street, followed by putt, puff, groan and rattle—and something came to a halt before the Geiger house; despite the cold, everyone ran outside to have a look, see the cause of such a ruckus and there, by the side of his very own, still trembling Lizzie, stood a grinning Stan.
“Ach, Mein Gott! My Stan! Ebbely, look! Now you no longer Lizzie owner unique!” Hannah was hugging the proud owner of motor splendor.
“A Touring, no less! My, my!” Fritz was impressed.
“Stan, you son of a gun! You kept this a secret! She’s a beauty!” John was running his hand along the fender, like a caress, brushing off a dusting of snow.
No one feeling the cold—everyone just stood and stared, rooted in admiration, until Stan pointed to the inner darkness of his automobile, laughing, exclaimed, “Look! Look, I brought presents!” And from out of the shadow of the back seat appeared the smiling faces of Carl, Peter, and Zoltan.
Hannah screamed, “MY BOYS! … But, de girls? Where?”
“With their families. We said tomorrow we are yours but on Christmas Eve—we are HANNAH’s. Zoltan, we just kidnapped from his mother!”
“Come, come quick inside—get cozy. Enough cider and de gingerbread I got. I was hoping …”
So they were reunited, vowed the little tree was even better than the one of last year, admired the splendid piano, sang carols, drank a toast to Jimmy with Fritz’s special Schnapps, settled themselves into their waiting chairs, watched the flickering candles and were home again. Fritz held Hannah on his lap, let her bury her face in his shoulder knowing she would cry. Michael, having enjoyed his first Christmas tremendously, cherub mouth smeared with the soggy remains of a gingerbread boy, slept in his wash basket between the menorah and the little tree, the picture of contentment.
Across the sea, battlefields lay silent. In the trenches, exhausted men on both sides rested on their guns, for a moment of suspended time, celebrating peace on Earth.
Not having been a disruptive presence during Christmas, Heinz-Hermann made up for it on the skating pond New Year’s Day. Racing about bumping people, interfering as Rudy was trying to steady Frederika, spinning Johann’s girls, until Hedwig, the youngest, threw up her breakfast. After that, Fritz ordered him off the ice, told him to go home!
Rumpelstiltskin, steering Jane in a careful waltz, his head just reaching her waist, looked up at her—a frown wrinkling his elfin face.
“That will have to stop. This can’t go on!”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I know I am clumsy …”
“No, dear girl. You are doing splendidly! I meant that Luciferian nephew!”
“Heinz-Hermann?” Jane laughed.
“You see? You knew immediately who I meant!”
“Well, yes …” Jane was slightly ashamed that she had. “… but, that is a little exaggerated, don’t you think?”
Rumpelstiltskin swung her around, making her skate backwards.
“Please! Ebbely! I can’t see where I’m going!”
“Keep loose! Glide! I am in perfect control!” Pushing her in front of him like a wheelbarrow, the little man stretched a leg out behind him, skating on the other like a ballerina in Swan Lake.
Needing all of her concentration to keep the back of her skates from catching in her skirts, Jane had no time to appreciate the elegance of her partner’s arabesque. Coming down to earth, both feet back on the ice, Rumpelstiltskin picked up his train of thought where he had left it hanging.
“Yes, that nephew must go … before he causes irrevocable damage to the superb equilibrium of Hannah’s house. Don’t you agree, Missus Jane?”
“I must admit I haven’t given this much thought,” replied his dancing partner, slightly out of breath.
“Well—think on it! Hannah needs our help on this, of that I am convinced! … AH! Here we are!” He slid to a halt by the bench. “And husband with babe awaits! Dear Lady …” Ebbely bowed, “… thank you for the dance. A winter memory to treasure. John, most kind of you to lend me your bride. Now, take her into your arms and go! The surface is divine today!” And, tipping his derby, Rumpelstiltskin was off—skates dug in, running upon the ice on tippytoes.
“Ninnie, you want to keep going?”
“Not if you’ve had enough.”
John began unlacing his skates. Disappointed, Jane started to do the same.
“What were you two talking about?”
“Oh, Ebbely is worried about Heinz-Hermann. His attitude, his …”
“We all are. Fritz should insist he move. He’s a troublemaker. The other day, he called one of the blacks a coon! There is enough bad blood already without some greenhorn kid stirring things up just to see where it gets him! He’s got a vocabulary that he’s certainly not learning at English school! … Ready? … Let’s go.” John put on his gloves, picked up his son, and started home. Jane, carrying their skates, followed behind.
Rumpelstiltskin stayed long enough to savor George Washington’s sour cherry pies, then it was time, once again, to be on his way. His territory now included Louisiana and, having heard harrowing tales of dastardly ruffians lurking in the bayous, he bought himself a Colt Automatic Lady’s Special, saying that although he was sure an occasion would not arise to actually fire it, the presence if its nestling power beneath his left armpit made him feel six feet tall. Armed, his hot-cold box stocked with Hannah’s bounty, honking his horn, waving farewell, Ebbely and his Lizzie disappeared down the street.
The repetitive warnings that the Ford Motor Company would not approve men for profit sharing who herded themselves into overcrowded boardinghouses, or those whose wives rented out rooms to single men, became the topic for daily discussions. Apprehensive, Fritz told Hannah the time had come to close.
“But dey are talking of de bad houses! De ones where dey even got hanky-panky girls working!”
“I know, but …”
“Here, we never been crowded. Everybody always got personal bed … never we used same bed for different men on shifts. I don’t have no flophouse! Everyting I make nice and clean … eat off my floors you can!”
“Hannahchen, I know. But we can’t take the chance. Now, I tell you is the time to close!” Hannah looked as though he had slapped her. “Come, Liebchen, with all my profit sharing and the new pay, we don’t need the money.”
“I know …”
“So? Think of all the hard work you won’t have to do anymore!”
“Ja! Me a real Lady of Leisure. What I do wit all dat lazy time? Go buy hats?”
“And why not? You certainly deserve to enjoy yourself!”
“So? We close?” Hannah said it softly, as though not wanting Fritz to hear her.
“Yes! We close!”
Furniture, bedsteads, mattresses, all the extras, everything was shoved into the no-longer-needed rooms. When all was stored away, Hannah locked the doors, hung the keys by the postcards in the larder, sat in her kitchen, and cried.
She, who was used to cooking for a crowd, dragging home a hundred-pound sack of potatoes, found that now twenty pounds lasted through a whole week. Making chicken soup for two threw her completely off balance, decreasing her recipes became an ongoing trauma. Every pan was too large, every pot too big! Preparing for those special Sunday suppers became a weeklong preoccupation, depending on them, a near obsession. But Hannah’s Boys were men now, with homes and families of their own, their lives no longer inseparable, solely dependent on the roots formed in their first home in a strange, new land. They still came, but not as often and not always all together. Sometimes, even Hannah’s Sundays remained barren.
To wean herself from dail
y mothering when the need for it is finished, Hannah knew was a woman’s lot, yet the conscious effort that this required, she found somehow beyond her. She shuffled about the empty house as though it had become foreign territory, fell victim to vague afflictions, sometimes remaining in bed because of the severity of recurring headaches.
Worried, Fritz left his department, went down to the tool shop floor, where John was, to ask him what he thought he should do.
“Well, if you ask me,” John shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din, “let Jane handle this—you? You relax!”
“John, you tell her?” Fritz yelled.
“Sure! Don’t worry!” John yelled back, preoccupied.
“It’s important! I don’t know WHAT to do!”
“I’ll tell Jane as soon as I get home. Now, get out of here!” Relieved, Fritz hurried back to his building.
With the help of Henrietta, Jane took on the task of seeing to it that Hannah survived the mourning period of her emptied nest. They visited at all hours, brought their children, encouraged them to be noisy, even misbehave, filled the Geiger house with happy chaos. Searching through endless catalogs for items they had no intention of ever ordering, involving Hannah in serious decisions concerning color, style, measurements, and price, were forever famished, utterly distraught if there were no freshly baked treats awaiting their arrivals, lugged home gallons of chicken soup that they convinced Hannah she had to make for them or their husbands would never speak to them again.