You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “Sure, but we couldn’t get it working in time.”

  “Well, my friend—now it is, so now Ford is going to show off his famous baby to the whole world at the San Francisco’s Panama-Pacific Exposition!”

  Fritz turned to John. “True? You really going all the way to California?” Carl spoke before John could answer. “Listen. It’s not only the line the company wants to show off, I hear the Sociological Department is planning a display of its own.”

  “What in God’s name can those people show?” Johann refilled his glass.

  “The before and after?” murmured Zoltan.

  “You’re kidding! What are they going to do? Make some poor bastard and his brood stand there filthy, then wash the whole miserable bunch down, right there in public—before all the people?” Stan laughed derisively. “The reporters will have a field day!”

  Carl put down his glass. “I don’t think even that department, with all its do-gooders will dare to go that far!”

  “They’ll do something, though. Ford has his heart set on showing the country his many achievements, not only his fast method of producing Model Ts, but also as philanthropic industrialist.” Zoltan held out his glass to Carl, who was pouring more wine.

  “The Motion Picture Department is preparing a film, showing the assembly plant in motion,” remarked John.

  “Now, that will be a sensation!” exclaimed Fritz.

  “So will the actual line display! It will take up a whole building of its own. Ford wants to assemble eighteen complete Model Ts—maybe even more, during a three-hour demonstration every single day.”

  For a moment, even the Ford men were stunned by the idea.

  “My God!” Rudy shook his head. “Can that be done, John?”

  “To tell you the truth, at this moment I’m not sure it can. But, Henry Ford has his mind set on this and that means …”

  Ebbely interrupted him. “And that means, my dear automotive geniuses, that in San Francisco, city of superlative elegance and elitist culture, your so famous, revolutionary assembly system will be spitting out little black Lizzies like shit from a goat’s behind!” Laughing, the men raised their glasses in agreement.

  Peter, who had wanted to be a musician before becoming a wheel man, asked, “Is the Ford Band going to perform?”

  “You mean the March and Two Step or the Concert Band?”

  “Either one will for sure,” said Fritz. “The Boss loves his bands about as much as he does his fairs.”

  “You’ve got to admit, they’re great for keeping the name of Ford before the people,” added Johann.

  “And that sells more Lizzies!” Rudy drained his glass. Zoltan looked at Fritz. “Think we’re going to make it to Ford’s goal, giving buyers a rebate if we hit more than three hundred thousand in sales?”

  “Well, we still have some time to go before next August, so—yes, I think it could be possible. John, what do you think?”

  “You know me—I think—with Henry Ford, nothing is impossible!”

  “Here we go!” his friends chanted.

  “Well—you asked me!” John countered good-naturedly.

  “Anyone got the latest news on the war?” Carl looked over at his friend. “What about your Russians, Fritz? They know anything?”

  “All they know was that in Flanders, there were terrible casualties. The British attacked the German line at a place … wait a minute … starts with a CH …”

  “That’s Neuve Chapelle, I believe.”

  “Ebbely? How did you know that?”

  “Louisiana. Their newspapers keep up with the war as though their own people are fighting over there. In a way, they probably are, being mostly of French descent.”

  “Two of me younger brothers are in the fighting!” In all the years that Rosie’s father had lived in America, his speech had not lost the lilting proof of his Irish roots.

  “Where, Mr. Haggarty?” asked Johann of their host.

  “Their regiment, the Irish Fusiliers, are said to be somewhere near Belgium.”

  “Have any of you gotten any letters from home?” Peter looked worried.

  “My parents wrote, mail from Holland isn’t affected,” answered Johann.

  “You’re lucky.” Rudy sighed. “Since war was declared, I’ve had only one letter and that was written before the fighting began. Don’t say anything to Frederika—but I am really worried. And, let’s face it, we, as Austrians, are the enemy.” Rudy looked at Fritz. “And so are you, my friend.”

  “I got first papers—I’m not an enemy!”

  “Well, if the war goes on and America has to take sides, you will be, naturalization papers or not!”

  “I’ve had mail from Italy—and all of it is infuriating!”

  “What’s the matter, John, your family refuse to leave?” asked Stan.

  “You’re damn right. How did you know?”

  “Mine are too scared to budge out of Rumania.”

  “Mine are too loyal to the kaiser and the Fatherland … if you can swallow that!” Fritz grumbled.

  “Mine are just undecided—like the whole damn country.”

  “John please don’t take offense, but that is so typically Italian!” ventured Ebbely.

  “You’re so right! I have a good mind to go over there and haul them out myself!”

  “With German submarines now threatening Atlantic shipping, you can’t. Fortunately for your Missus—if you don’t mind my saying so.” Zoltan got up. “Sorry, I must leave. My mother … well, you know how it is. Carl, Mr. Haggarty, it was a splendid ceremony.”

  Everyone agreed, went to thank Rosie and her mother, then collected their ladies and started home.

  Having been impressed by Jane’s Easter attire, Frederika visited her the very next day. Never one suited to the routine of a conscientious wife patiently awaiting a husband’s return to give meaning to her day, she often walked over to Jane’s to rid herself of a few hours of boredom.

  Having hung up Frederika’s hat and shawl, Jane preceded her down the hall to the kitchen.

  “Come, I’m ironing—there’s fresh coffee on the stove.”

  Knowing Frederika preferred conversing in her mother tongue, Jane spoke in German, welcoming the chance to practice.

  Seeing that she was not going to be served, Frederika poured herself a cup, asking if there was cream.

  “I’m sorry. I only have milk—it’s on the back porch.”

  “I’ll take it black.” Frederika sat sipping her coffee, not enchanted by its bitterness.

  Jane dampened a shirt. “How are you feeling? Yesterday I thought you looked a little pale, but that could have been just the reflection from your dress. That shade of green can do that, sometime.”

  “Yes, I know, but it never has done it with me. My complexion has always been perfect … until now!”

  “How many months before you’re due?”

  “About five I think.” Frederika’s voice held little enthusiasm.

  Not knowing what to say, Jane continued her ironing. Michael, distracted from unraveling a ball of twine, crawled over to examine the hem of Frederika’s skirt. She snatched it away from his possibly grubby fingers. He gave her a startled look, then unconcerned by her rejection, crawled back to the fascinating tangle of twine.

  “Does this child ever cry?”

  “Not very often. Why?”

  “I hope ours won’t. I can’t abide screaming babies.” Frederika took another sip of coffee as though only good manners required her to. “The dress you wore yesterday—I thought was very attractive. May I inquire where you bought it?”

  “I made it myself.”

  “Really!”

  “We could never afford for me to buy such an outfit.”

  “Well, knowing from my mother, who only wears the very latest styles to be
purchased in Vienna, how expensive high fashion can be, I believe you.” Frederika extracted a lace handkerchief from her reticule, blew her nose without making a sound. Fascinated, Jane wondered how she managed to do that.

  “Jane, would you ever consider making me a dress?”

  “If you like.”

  “Of course, I should insist on supplying the material as well as paying you for your time and labor.”

  “You have such a petite figure, so well proportioned, it wouldn’t take much time at all.”

  “Of course, all this will have to wait until after my confinement. Now doing anything would be just a waste of time.”

  Sighing, Frederika rose, gingerly stepping over Michael, put her cup in the sink. Jane folded John’s freshly ironed shirt.

  “I could let out the waistband of some of your dresses in the meantime.”

  “Yes, that would probably be convenient. Well, I should be going.”

  Jane saw her to the door. Putting on her hat and gloves, Frederika thanked her for her hospitality, told her she could come over to her house to collect the clothes she would want to have altered, and left. Jane returned to her ironing not disturbed by Frederika’s blatant snobbery, for she was used to it by now.

  Waiting for the iron to reheat, her thoughts took flight. If Frederika was in such need of a seamstress that she was willing to pay her, maybe there were others who required the same, would pay for her services. Then, with the money earned, solely hers, maybe she could someday buy herself one of Mr. Singer’s splendid sewing machines.

  The very next day, Jane went to pick up her work from Frederika, came to an amiable arrangement concerning price and date of delivery and, with arms full of silken finery, raced home, eager to become a genuine needlewoman to distinctive ladies. She thought of putting a discreet sign announcing this in the front window, but knew that John would never allow such degrading proof of a wife accepting payment for what other women of class did only for pleasure or acceptable recreation, would shame his manhood. So she altered Frederika’s dresses as though doing a favor, put the cents earned inside her special shoebox, next to Teresa’s letter and said nothing.

  April was nearly over when fire destroyed the great bridge that connected Detroit with beautiful Belle Isle. Hannah, already looking forward to their July Glory Day picnic like the year before, was terribly upset—just couldn’t believe it had happened!

  “How in Himmel are we going to get dere witout dat bridge? Fritz, mit a boat, I won’t go! Everybody get seasick—so special picnic don’t mean a ting. What a tragedy! How could such a ting happen?”

  For days, Detroit’s newspapers covered The Big Fire. No one spoke of anything else. For a short while, the war in Europe, gaining alarming momentum, took second place to a tragedy closer to home.

  The sinking of the British luxury liner Lusitania by a German submarine with the loss of more than a thousand lives brought it back into stunned focus. With 128 American citizens among the dead, the country began to take the European conflict seriously enough to consider renouncing its neutrality and enter the war.

  “Now we go to war!” Zoltan was so convinced he was already worried about whom he could get to look after his mother when he enlisted. Johann agreed, “I’m sure of it. Now we have no choice.”

  “You? They won’t take you—you’re a married man with a family.”

  John, who had brought his friends home to discuss the shocking news, nodded.

  “None of us may be allowed to enlist.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “If we do go to war the skilled labor force of the country will be needed to produce the articles necessary to wage a war.”

  “Are we ready for this?” Carl asked knowing the answer.

  “No, I can’t think how. How can we be?” Fritz turned to his friend. “We make Ts, John … you think the Boss will convert to war machinery?”

  “I’ve heard that on the battlefields the stench of rotting horse flesh is sometimes worse than that of the rotting corpses. So …”

  Carl interrupted, “John, what are you getting at?”

  “I think this war will end the use of horses and mules and what will take their place? Motorized transportation of course and Ford will lead the way.”

  Fritz tapped out his pipe. “Well, my friends, I go home to Hannah—let’s wait a little and see what the president decides.”

  Woodrow Wilson determined to keep his reelection platform intact, chose to fight through diplomatic channels—reprimanded the Imperial German Empire for its unwarranted brutality against innocent neutral travelers, warning that should German U-boats try it again in the future, the United States would then have no choice but to consider the possibility of entering the war on the side of the Allies.

  Their confidence in the man who had vowed to keep the nation out of war reaffirmed, most of America heaved a sigh of relief—went back to work profiting from a war, for now, removed from them. Only natural that public opinion would favor England, a country part of its heritage sharing a common language, after the Lusitania tragedy, the hatred of Germans and those nationalities supporting them began to surface. A slow-moving current of public emotion at first, it now gained momentum, that eventually would become a raging torrent. The first to feel its fledgling impact were the immigrant communities.

  America, a nation having absorbed more than fourteen million immigrants on a global scale, now found itself a Declared Neutral, with a workforce mostly comprised of nationals stemming from countries locked in deadly conflict. Popular hatreds, their reasons lost amidst the ages, resurfaced, played into ever-ready bias and bigotry. Those of German origin found that by changing their names to more Anglo-Saxon forms, now not only aided their businesses but their acceptability as well. Schmidts became Smith, Herrmanns—Herman. Most, not finding an easy way to retain the root of their name, changed it altogether, others simply translated it. Schneiders became Taylors, Wassermanns—Waters, Muellers—Millers. Hungarians and others hailing from those areas of Europe where men were more swarthy, shaved off their identifying facial hair, achieved a more acceptable clean-cut image which, in turn, pleased Ford’s Sociological Department no end.

  Whereas euphoric nationalism was the driving force behind Europe’s youth, eager to do glorious battle, nationalism within America’s immigrant communities was far more complex. Where did their loyalties lie? With their adopted homeland, the one that had welcomed, given them shelter? Or, as was true for many, the homeland they planned to return to with fortunes made? Or, should their loyalty first be to themselves, the struggle it had cost to realize a dream? Brave flag waving for old loyalties, though laudable, many had learned through hard experience that survival offered more lasting rewards than impulsive patriotism. Many did leave, later to die on some battlefield.

  Most stayed, many torn by guilt yet more than ever determined to make America their new homeland. Those fortunate to have brought families over helped those who did not know what had happened or might happen to theirs. Everyone waited for news from across the sea.

  During this time of political and personal turmoil, the thousands of immigrant workers on Henry Ford’s continuously moving assembly lines began to welcome the numbing effect of its repetitive, hypnotic monotony.

  For John, having a family left behind, even in a country not yet at war, geographically still close enough to it, was cause for constant worry. Since the very beginning of hostilities, he had been writing, urging his family to leave Italy, join him in America. His parents’ refusal did not deter him from insisting that at least then his sisters should be persuaded to leave, come live with him and his family in Highland Park. Getting no concrete answer, he kept writing, hoping, until May 23, when Italy, having finally decided which side would be the most advantageous to join, entered the war.

  “Ninnie! Damn! Damn! Now it’s too late! Those stupid fools! Thank God,
at least Italy has chosen to throw in her lot with England and France. But now my hands are tied … I can’t do a damn thing to help! If it had been only Celestina, she would have come. She’s got spunk! But, Gina? She probably moaned and groaned about drowning at sea—too, too frightened of everything just like that stupid Camilla and, because of Gina, of course, Celestina stayed. Wait till I get my hands on those two. Stupid! Just stupid! Women! Thank God you’re not one!” And John stormed out of the house. Jane, closing the door behind him, wondered what exactly he had meant by that.

  Just before his first birthday, Michael decided the time had come to explore life from an upright perspective and, slightly off kilter, under his own steam, walked out into the beckoning world and tumbled down the porch steps. He wasn’t hurt but his agonizing screams convinced Jane he must be. From then on, her life was hell. Quietly sewing—an impossibility. As a matter of fact, any activity that did not include her son—a preordained disaster. Whatever caught Michael’s fancy, he ran towards, oblivious to any and all obstacles that happened to be in the way. It was as though the little boy assumed things would step aside to accommodate him when seeing him coming towards them.

  When tables, chairs, doors, walls bumped into him, he ricocheted off them, sat on the floor stunned, looking at the obstacle as though surprised at why it had refused to move out of the way. If Jane hadn’t been so harassed, she might have found her so determined son amusing but, for some reason, his unfettered freedom annoyed her. John, working on an idea of how to restrict Michael’s adventurous spirit, built a hinged four-sided fence around him. Hannah, on first seeing this pen, sniffed, “Your Michael—he is now a chicken?” But when she saw he didn’t seem to mind, had toys to occupy him within this private, safe domain, she began to accept it, saying that as John’s clever invention seemed to work, next year maybe, he should build one to hold Carl and Rosie’s twins.

  Most early mornings, after John had left for work and before it was time to begin her daily duties, Jane stood on the front porch waiting for Mr. Henry to come down the street. It had been months now, since Teresa’s letter and, although she was sure a convent, even one situated in France, would not be desecrated by war, she worried, needed to have Teresa tell her that she was safe. Also, though she had answered both Bela’s and Eugenie’s letters, written Camilla and Antonia, even her father of the birth of a son and received no answers, Jane figured one of these mornings Mr. Henry, conscientious mailman that he was, would just have to stop at her house.