You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  Henry Ford was lampooned, dubbed a buffoon, a fool—Rosika Schwimmer a “Great spider weaving the web of her plans,” and more. By the time the Oskar II was about to reach its destination, there were some amongst the reporters who actually felt sorry for “The Flivver King,” had come to the conclusion that Ford had only acted like a gullible, well-meaning child and now might need their help to have his image of car-maker folk-hero resurrected for the good of the nation.

  When, on December 18, the Oskar II reached Norway, an ailing Henry Ford was hustled off the ship by two of his trusted men. One, a Bible-thumping clergyman, head of his Sociological Department, the other a most obliging chauffeur-cum-bodyguard who was destined in the not-too-distant future to feather a most fortuitous nest as reward for private services done his Boss far beyond the call of duty. The “Spider,” unsuccessful in holding her generous benefactor fast in her web, Henry Ford left his funded commission behind to do the best they could without him, and returned home.

  By all normal standards, his return should have been one of public ridicule but, surprisingly, it was not. Once again, the country took him to its heart. Especially grassroots America, who regarded him as one of their own. Henry Ford had always put their needs first and just like the trusty dependable machine he had given them, had never let them down.

  The Ford men were jubilant, though the Boss might have lost, in the end he had won. No man could be asked to do more than his best.

  Having found adequate lodgings, even a warm stable to bed down his Lizzie in, Rumpelstiltskin decided to forgo the hazards of winter roads, lay over, spend the Christmas season among the hearty natives of St. Paul.

  Out of the bowels of her larder Hannah called to Jane pulling off her galoshes in the hall. “Come! I’m in de larder pinning. You gotta see!” Intrigued, Jane looked in. “Come in, Ninnie, shut de door I gotta pin. Ebbely, he sent me new picture postcards, bad news written on dem but de postcards, dey are funny. I put dem up, den you can have a laugh!”

  “Bad news?”

  “Our Ebbely, he’s not coming back for dis Christmastime.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Well, he says better he stay nice and cozy in a town in dat Minnesota and I tink dat’s sensible. Iciness can make his Lizzie slip around and maybe he has den an accident. So, better we miss him so he stay safe … dere.” She stepped back. “See, dey don’t have picture like de others—dese are special funny drawing postcards wit Model T jokes … which you like best?”

  Laughing, Jane picked the one that had little birds perched on the branch of a tree, chirping as a Ford went by. “Cheap, cheap, cheap.”

  “I like de goat wit de terrible stomach cramps, complaining, ‘I ate a Ford and it’s still running.’ Many good jokes about our Lizzie so small but strong. Here,” Hannah pointed to another card on the door, “dis one—see—a happy Model T passing a big limousine stuck in de mud, says, ‘De big car fumes and throws a fit, but de little Ford don’t mind a bit.’” Hannah sat before the larder door, relishing her collection. “You know of any udder motorcar in de whole world dat gets special postcards made of it?” Jane had to admit it was wondrous indeed. “And I hear dat in de big cities where dey have dose music halls, dere dey tell Tin Lizzie jokes—make people laugh … not to be mean, just give everybody a good time for dere money.”

  “You know any, Hannah?”

  “Fritz tell me one, just like dey say it professional … see if I remember right … Policeman. What is de charge against dis fellow? Second policeman. Stealing a Ford car! Judge. Take de prisoner out—and search him.” They both enjoyed that one. “Okay—we make de bread now. You got de kümmel?”

  “The what?”

  “De caraway—you said you wanted to learn to make de rye bread wit de seeds.”

  Together they baked their weekly breads, Jane being taught the secrets of producing a sour rye that was truly superlative. But, no matter how often she tried over the years, diligently following each and every step, Jane never did manage to turn out a loaf as perfect as Hannah’s.

  Their twins still too young to be exposed to the cold night air, Carl and Rosie decided to stay home on Christmas Eve. Johann and Henrietta’s girls had caught a chill and so they too would have to remain home. As Dora’s sister had come all the way from Buffalo to spend the holidays, Peter too had no choice but to stay, play host. Her pregnancy now well advanced, Serafina was adamant that when Stan drove her to her father’s house, he stay by her side, the ever-attentive father-to-be. With no one to drive him, his mother in a fouler mood than usual, Zoltan cornered Fritz at work, made his heartfelt excuses, asked him to be sure to convey to Hannah how much it grieved him to have to miss her Christmas Eve celebration this year. Hoping that going to the Geigers’ would bring a little cheer, Rudy persuaded a disinterested Frederika to make the effort, arriving at the welcoming house just as John and his family were being greeted by an excited Hannah.

  “Quick! Get out of your tings! Don’t ask questions!” Her tall frame tense with impatience, tapping her foot, waiting for them to peel off their winter layers, finally, unable to wait any longer, she grabbed Jane’s hand, pulled her down the hall, calling to the others to follow quick!

  “Look!” Hannah pointed to the wall next to the door leading down to the cellar and there, in all its glory, hung the oaken box and apparatus of a talking telephone! “Fritz, he gave me! Like a lady millionaire I am! Everybody, vatch! He show me how. First, you crank de handle couple of times—just like mit a flivver, den quick you lift off de important ting—for de hearing—den you crank again—den you shout nice and clear into dis, de speaking piece, tell de special number of de far away udder person you want to have speak wit you—to a smart nice lady who knows where to plug exactly de cables into de right holes so you get connected all the way to ring-a-ling anudder talking machine far away. All de way across town even, if you want!”

  John put his arm around her, kissed her cheek. “If I had known a telephone would make you this happy, I would have gotten you one myself!”

  “My Fritz, he knew. Anyway, only husband allowed to give expensive present like dis—so no smarty ideas from you, my Baby Boy!”

  “You haven’t called me that in years!” John hugged her some more.

  “Dat’s because you now a big grown-up papa. Where is my Bubbeleh? You forget him on de doorstep?” Hearing Hannah’s special name for him, Michael ran to hug her skirts. Smiling, she bent down, picked him up. “Merry Christmas, little one. Now—first we go light all de candle—make de tree special—den we sing de carols, drink de Schnapps—you get milk! Don’t make a face—it’s good for you! Den, I have a big surprise I make for you and before your Mama and Papa take you home to sleep, you know what we do? I will turn de handle—let you listen to de ring-a-ling of my special Christmas present!”

  Without Ebbely to tickle its ivories, the piano remained silent, but they sang the carols, remembered how Jimmy used to insist on singing the endless lyrics of those partridges sitting in that pear tree. All were enchanted by the fairy-tale gingerbread house and Michael’s joy breaking sugar icicles off its roof to stuff his mouth with, drank the precious Schnapps, contented in the warm glow of the candlelight, watching it flicker. Michael, heeding his father’s warning to be very, very careful, played with the carved figures of shepherds and kings, gently regrouping them around the baby lying in the manger. With Hannah, a Christmas Eve, even with so many missing, was complete, somehow.

  After everyone had gone, Fritz put the Schnapps back in the cabinet, turned the key, blew out the candles on the little tree, made sure the lit menorah was well enough away from the curtains so nothing could catch fire during the night, called to Hannah in German. “Hannahchen, now I am going up. You are coming?”

  Her happy voice reached him from the kitchen. “Go up, Liebling! Only a little bit still I got, den I come!” Listening for it, the instant she heard him open their bed
room door, Hannah scurried into the hall carrying a kitchen stool, sat herself down before the wall that held her wonderful Christmas present—just to gaze at it. With Missus Adams, once the owner of a talking machine, no longer in Highland Park having immigrated to Canada, Hannah knew no one who had a talking telephone. But she was sure she would some day and, when that glorious moment arrived, she would know how to ring-a-ling someone whole streets away and maybe even a someone would someday do her the great honor of ring-a-linging Missus Hannah Geiger, proud possessor of a talking telephone, in return.

  Having made her usual quantity of Christmas gingerbread, Hannah had so much left over, the next day she packed it into one of her Glory Day picnic baskets, took it with her to the pond, handed it out to anyone who skated past her. This festive gesture was such a success, so appreciated, she told Fritz she planned to do it again next year, even if it meant having to do double batches.

  Alone on the bench, Jane watched John skating with Michael perched on his shoulders, arms wrapped around his father’s throat, holding on for dear life—scared stiff—loving every minute of it. By next Christmas, he would be old enough to skate on his own. Where had the year gone? She felt the baby move inside her, wished Rumpelstiltskin were there to ask her for a waltz.

  14

  As a New Year’s treat, Mr. Henry actually stopped, one mittened paw waving a letter addressed to Jane. “Here, I got one!” His warm breath steamed. “Again this one was sent to the Geigers’! Doesn’t anyone know where you live?” As though chiding a forgetful youngster his voice held a smile. Before she could tempt him to come inside, warm himself by the stove, the mailman turned, waved farewell, hurried off to his duties. Holding her letter like the precious gift it was, Jane returned to the kitchen before opening it.

  In carefully formed words, placed neatly on lines drawn with a ruler, Megan had at last put pencil to paper.

  Dear Giovanna,

  Surprise, surprise it’s meself, Megan, your shipboard mate, the Irish one. I hope you still remember me. Sure you’re knowing how to read in English after so long is sure a welcome relief for me. So here I am writin’ to say hello and give you our address so if you have a mind to answer, you can. Never did make it to where I thought I was goin’. Me Patrick havin’ thought the better of it followed more advantageous opportunities up North. So here we are, still in the grand city of New York, livin’ in rooms, boardin’ in a house with other Irish folk just like us. Times have been hard. Oh, it’s not that me Patrick isn’t ever willing to work, no matter what is—alright with him but, no fine horses now to look after he follows the ponies. Never know from one day to the next what will be, but as me dad used to say “You can’t have coal, peat will do as well.” We manage. Me Patrick is away a good deal, his so numerous business connections take him out of town. So I have taken day employment in one of the fine houses on the 5th Avenue—just to keep from sittin’ home all alone twiddlin’ me thumbs, mind. Here we hear all sorts of talk about that Mr. Henry Ford and then I always think of you. Hopin’ this finds you well and you will answer in kind, I remain yours.

  Sincerely, your friend,

  Megan Flanningan

  Jane let the letter rest in her lap. How long ago it all seemed. The four of them, so different, who had forsaken familiarity to follow their men, so sure a better life awaited them in a far-off land.

  Now it appeared as though only she had found a security worthy of their adventure. Sitting in her warm kitchen, Jane recognized her good fortune, at the same moment aware that the self-satisfaction this should bring eluded her. Once again, she chided herself for always being so hard to please, when all the basics for pleasure surrounded her, and felt confused with herself. As with most bereft children, never having experienced the dependability of love, Jane yearned for what she imagined it must be. Her birdlike eyes forever focused on far horizons, Jane rarely saw what lay at her feet waiting to be perceived.

  During supper that evening, Jane mentioned Megan’s letter and its contents to John, who replied that her cabin-mate’s circumstances did not surprise him.

  “When I saw that flashy automobile of his, I told you he was certainly no groom. So—he turns out to be a no-good gambler, doesn’t surprise me in the least.”

  “Poor Megan, she had such lofty dreams—living in a great mansion, serving a fine Southern lady.”

  “All immigrants have dreams.”

  “But not all are disappointed.” Clearing her husband’s plate, Jane was struck by the thought that they were actually having a conversation.

  “No, not if their original dreams, as you call them, were based on some reality.”

  Wanting to prolong this rare exchange, Jane asked, “Exactly what reality?”

  “Hard work, determination, sacrifice, self-discipline, a passion, a true sense of purpose—not necessarily in that order but all of them necessary to achieve one’s goal.”

  “You didn’t include freedom, John.”

  “Freedom is the result of the others!”

  “Is it really that hard? Was it for you?”

  “Of course! Fritz, Rudy, Zoltan—all of us. The one thing about immigrants that unites all of us is our need, our initial courage to search for a better life. You are lucky you didn’t have to do it alone, it was already done for you.”

  Although this was beginning to enter channels perhaps dangerous, Jane persisted. “Could marriage be considered a form of immigration?”

  “Marriage?” John looked startled.

  “Yes. Would you say it too needs all the things you mentioned to achieve its goal?”

  Intrigued despite himself, John challenged, “Its goal being?”

  “Success?”

  “Don’t be silly! A woman’s success already lies in just being married. After that all that is left for her to do is live within its … boundaries to have what she wants.”

  “She may not always know what she really wants.”

  “Women as a whole don’t know what they want! They blow like the wind—they need a man to give them direction!”

  “Really.”

  Having noticed for some time that his wife seemed meeker, less argumentative when speaking a foreign language she had learned, John switched from Italian to English—his tone demanding. “Well? Are we having dessert tonight or not?”

  Wishing she could, yet knowing she should go no further, Jane went to fetch the apple cobbler.

  On Valentine’s Day, Rumpelstiltskin returned, shed his winter coverings, grabbed Hannah’s hand, pulled her into the parlor, positioned her by the piano, did his twirling trick with the stool and, smiling up at the object of his affection, launched into a buoyant rendition of “Oh, You Beautiful Doll,” stressing the second line, YOU GREAT-BIG BEAUTIFUL DOLL! finishing his amorous performance with a delighted giggle. “When I heard it, I knew! Immediately! This song was written with you in mind. Bought the sheet music, learned it on the spot and have been waiting, fretting for months to serenade you with it! What’s for supper? Whatever, smells delicious!” Hannah hugged him so hard, he squealed, “Enough! I’m delicate!”

  “Ach, my Ebbely! Why you stay away so long?”

  “Never again, dear lady! Never again! Barbaric, absolutely barbaric! But, they adored the bloomers and those latkes!? Ambrosia!”

  “Latkes? You like dere latkes? Better den my German pancakes? So—I make you latkes!” Not having meant to make her jealous, Ebbely quickly kissed her hand and escaped upstairs to the safety of his room.

  Though it was a weeknight, having heard their favorite shrimp was back, his friends came to welcome him home; picked him up, kissed the top of his head, chased him through the house, then, their game done, settled down in the parlor to listen to his stories, ask about the conditions of the roads, farther than many of them had ever been.

  “Deplorable, my friends—still deplorable. Think of a freshly plowed field afte
r a cloudburst and you get a good idea. Sometimes even a Model T can’t get through and that’s a shocking statement, as you will all agree. Have any of you ever heard of the idea they call ‘seeding’?” Some of the men looked blank. Ebbely continued, “Sometimes, as you are approaching a town—the muck, rocks and ruts suddenly stop, and then, as though by magic, suddenly you are gliding on smoothest heaven! And you realize you’re rolling along on a surface that has been paved! By the time you get over the shock, your aching bones just beginning to enjoy this astonishing sensation—BANG! You’re back in the muck! … And you know why? You’ve just done a mile. Exactly one mile, of what is called a ‘seeded road.’ Some crafty bureaucrat has sold the idea of surfacing roads—one mile at a time, like planting flower beds, hoping these little seedlings will beget state funding and grow into long stretches of surfaced roadways. This scheme may not be as idiotic as it sounds—certainly something has to be done to wake up the legislators, convince those boobs that the horseless carriage is here to stay! Still, as of now, I can tell you—when you hit one of those seeded miles? It’s a real shock—at both ends! But, I must tell you what I came across in Wisconsin. One bitter cold morning, driving through the town of Madison, I passed one of your dealerships—which I must tell you are springing up like mushrooms all over the country—when what do I see? With a great big For Sale sign? A Model T Two Seater!” Pausing a split second for effect, Ebbely intoned, “A secondhand Model T, my friends!”

  Stunned silence filled the room. In those days, when things were built to last, fickleness to what served you well was nonexistent, and no one ever got rid of their beloved Lizzie.