You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “Aha—I see you are as stunned as I was by such an unusual sight. So, naturally, I had no choice but to stop and inquire the circumstances that brought this unique tragedy to pass.”

  “And?” the Ford men asked in unison.

  “Hark. Well, my friends, for it is a sad, sad tale of loss and fickle fate. It seems there was an ambitious man of the cloth who, being convinced that the Lord had singled him out to spread the Word beyond his humble pulpit, go forth, search for his erring flock, roam the far reaches of Wisconsin to herd them back amongst the righteous—sold a pair of silver candlesticks and with the proceeds bought himself a Model T to do so in high style. By night, by day, through rain, sleet and snow, he toiled in the service of His Maker until, one dark and stormy night, he struck a large rock, his flivver bucked, he catapulted, struck his head on said rock and expired on the spot! The next day they found him, stiff as a board, his trusty T grazing by his side, still running!”

  Hannah asked from the doorway, “Dis going to take long still?”

  “You want us? Supper ready?” Fritz started to get up.

  “No. A little time still. Just am wondering how long dis fancy story telling is going on.” Rumpelstiltskin, knowing she was still fuming that he had dared to enjoy someone else’s cooking, opted for silence. “Well, okay den—but make it fast.” Heaving an exasperated, put-upon sigh, Hannah returned to her kitchen.

  “Where was I?”

  “They found him dead … “

  “Ah, yes. Well, it seems he had a married sister, lived somewhere near Oshkosh, she and her husband came down for the funeral, afterwards, happy as two squirrels cracking nuts, they take possession of the Model T and are about to drive out of town, when lo and behold, the local sheriff stops them, claims it as the primary evidence in the theft of a pair of silver candlesticks belonging to the church! So after the usual ruckus, the car was put up for sale to recoup the loss. I’m starved! Let’s eat!”

  Moving into the dining room, Fritz still chuckling, asked, “Ebbely, how is Minnesota?”

  “Oh, my God! First I must have sustenance before recounting you my experiences this winter. Have you ever had to live two endless months with nothing but snow and muscled women who walk like men? If not, you can have no concept of what that can do to a man. First—Hannah’s magnificent libation, then I’ll tell you—but let me warn you, it’s not a pretty picture!”

  “Sounds a little like Poland.” Laughing, Carl took his seat.

  Peter frowned, “We got pretty women!”

  “Yeah, sure we have.”

  “What about that Temple dancer?” Peter sounded like a little boy determined to prove his point. “She’s beautiful!”

  “What Temple dancer? In Poland?” Zoltan sounded utterly confused.

  Peter looked to Fritz for help.

  “You know who I mean? Just a few years ago, she was the toast of Paris. Martha … something … if Dora was here, she would know.”

  Johann, rounding the table to his place, burst out laughing.

  “You mean MATA—not Martha—MATA HARI!”

  “That’s her!” Peter beamed.

  “She’s not a Pole, you fool—she’s a Hollander like me and her real name is Margaretha Zelle. I know, because my cousin was in school with her.”

  “Well, I once saw a likeness and she’s beautiful!”

  “But she ain’t Polish, Peter! Hey, Hannah, your Ebbely says he’s starving for your magnificence.”

  She, carrying in a platter of succulent brisket of beef, framed by egg noodles, gave Ebbely a look.

  “Well, when you arrive, I tink you look special—scrawny—like dey don’t feed you right—so? EAT!”

  Having finished, Rumpelstiltskin sighed, leaned back in his chair.

  “Now, my friends, while I digest, tell me what was all that hullabaloo about your Boss and his Ship of Peace? In the St. Paul papers, they printed some things he said at a meeting with the press that, begging your pardon, sounded as though he had gone and lost his marbles. Here …” He reached into his vest pocket. “… I cut it out just to show you.”

  “Read it, Ebbely.”

  “If you insist—but just the part that astounded me. Here, they quote Ford. Listen.

  ‘“Well, boys, I got the ship.”

  “What ship, Mr. Ford?”

  “Why, the Oskar II.”

  “Well, what are you going to do with her?”

  “We’re going to stop the war.”

  “Going to stop the war?”

  “Yes we’re going to get the boys out of the trenches by Christmas.”

  “But how are you going to do it?”

  “Oh, you’ll see.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What country will you head for?”

  “I don’t know …”’

  “and so forth and so on. You must admit …”

  Carl mumbled, “Ford might seem ridiculous to the press but for the people, he’s still a hero. You should have been here when he got back! Detroit went wild, cheering him as Crusader.”

  “Ja, Ebberhart, Carl is right. At least the Boss tried, even if it turned out no good—you can’t take that away from him.”

  “Well, it’s more than Wilson is doing certainly,” Ebbely stirred his coffee.

  “Stan thinks we’ll be drawn into it.”

  “By ‘we’—I assume, Fritz, you mean the United States?”

  “Of course, who else?”

  Ebbely folded his napkin. “I happen to agree with Stan. But what troubles me is, when that day comes, what will be the country’s attitude towards those of German birth. What is the feeling at the plant? Still under control would you say, Fritz?”

  “Sure. A little blowup here and there, sometimes when the news comes in and it is really bad—like the poison gas—they get into a fight but nothing really serious. Right, Carl?” Fritz looked over at his friend.

  “Yes, we moved the French and Belgians away from the Germans, shifted the Turks, Austrian-Hungarians and a few Bulgarians and Latvians into their positions on the line—seems to be working. How are your Russians?”

  “As long as we group them with Poles, Rumanians, Ukrainians, and Lithuanians, they’re okay,” Fritz answered.

  “I’ve got a rim man, a Serb, who got beat up—and he’s on our side.”

  “Peter, that’s because no one wants the Serbs, no matter whose side they’re on!”

  “It sounds to me, my friends, as though you’ve got your own war map over there.” Ebbely finished his coffee.

  “By the last count we have fifty-three nationalities speaking more than a hundred languages and dialects!”

  “My God!”

  “The end of this month, the Ford School will be graduating five hundred men who have received a sound education in reading, writing and speaking the English language,” John announced proudly.

  “Well, that should help!”

  “What do you mean, Ebbely?”

  “I would think, John, that the more your raw immigrants learn, become a functioning part of their adopted country, the more assimilated they become, the more they will be willing to let go of old loyalties. All of you are prime examples of that.” No one spoke. “Do I detect a hint of guilt?”

  “It’s easier for you, Ebbely. You’re a real American!”

  “A real American? What’s a real American? Only a Redskin can make that claim, and I wouldn’t look good in feathers!”

  “You know exactly what Zoltan meant.” Appreciating the attempt to lighten the mood, John smiled, yet pursued the thought. “You, as the only born American at this table have an identity. By birth you belong here. No one can take that away from you. It’s an inner certainty, an assurance of the future that none of us have—no matter how American we
strive to be, we may become. But you? You, my friend, you ARE!”

  “Let me get this straight. In principle, what you are saying John, is that you are but guests in a new homeland?”

  “Yes.”

  “Most of you have taken out your first papers for citizenship—what then? Won’t that make you real Americans?”

  “No, that will make us proud, privileged Americans. Real ones, we can never be.”

  “Ja, John is right.”

  Zoltan put down his napkin, “I find he usually is, Fritz.”

  Having not far to go, Johann and John were the last to leave. Locking the door behind them, Fritz began turning off lights in the hall. Rumpelstiltskin, standing on the third step in order to reach Hannah’s cheek, gave it a fleeting kiss.

  “Dear Lady, I’m exhausted! Simply drained. Never again shall I be so foolhardy as to venture into the frozen tundras of this land. How Indians ever survived that climate covered only in deerskin, I shall never understand. Even wrapped in buffalo hide, one can freeze one’s you know what off!” Fritz, passing, gave him a stern look. “Sorry, my dear. The master of the house objects …”

  “De Mistress—she doesn’t, so dere!”

  Forgiven, Ebbely blew her a kiss and, calling, “Good night,” scampered up the stairs to bed.

  He slept for days, finally emerging from what he christened his personal hibernation, to play innumerable renditions of “In the Hall of the Mountain King” with such Nordic gusto, the piano groaned. When Hannah showed him her wonderful Christmas present, Ebbely sought out Fritz, bowed low before him, shook his hand, congratulated him not only on his generosity, but his “about time” acceptance of a modern miracle that for once had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the mighty automobile.

  Of course, the little man knew many people who could be spoken to because they too possessed a talking telephone. Hannah placed a footstool so he could reach the apparatus, then watched in awe as her Ebbely made his connections, spoke with authority, conducted his business, ever the efficient knowledgeable salesman. Later Fritz built him a special step that was the perfect height so he could reach the mouthpiece more easily and hung a small coin box next to the telephone for payment purposes.

  Each time the Ford men came over, Ebbely waxed rhapsodic, calling the talking telephone the “Marvel of the Age.” Jane had the impression he did it on purpose for the fun of it, just to get them riled.

  Especially John, who would rise to the bait every time.

  “The Marvel of the Age? That contraption that needs another, a receiver, to make its existence worthwhile? Never!”

  “Ja, Ebberhart,” Fritz would agree. “And all those big ugly poles it needs—with all those wires all over going everywhere!”

  “And don’t forget about all those poor girls, who have to sit before those consoles all day, trying to figure out which holes to poke their cables into!” Often, Stan joined in for the fun of stirring the pot further.

  John nodded in agreement. “Yes—it’s dependent!” Certain there was more rhetoric to come, John’s friends waited, resigned. “It is the automobile, and especially the Model T, that has offered the common man his individual freedom, to go where he wants, when he wants wholly independent, free to choose. Don’t forget, it is individual freedom that defines this country!”

  A look of mock wonder on his little face, Ebbely looked about the room.

  “Isn’t he marvelous when he gets going like this? Give John a soapbox and he could run for mayor. And, it takes so little to set him off!”

  “You devil!” John was laughing. “You were having me on!”

  “Forgive me, I couldn’t resist! Calling forth your ever-ready oratory on your mania of the ‘Liberation of the Common Man’ is such a temptation!”

  “But I’m right, Ebbely. You have to admit I’m right!”

  “Yes! Now are you satisfied? I have great affection for you, John, but you can be—exhausting! Let’s eat!”

  Jane’s second pregnancy, now in its final stages, was one of lethargic boredom. Having to repeat an act no more welcome than the first seemed redundant. What is the matter with you, woman? she would ask herself, deeply concerned by her unnatural reaction to something normal women accepted, if not always with total joy, at least with some resemblance of anticipation.

  Both expecting to be delivered around the same time, Jane sometimes stopped off to visit Serafina on her way home from her Watcher duties within the Italian sections of Detroit. Her precious winter coat voluminous enough to hide her condition, she could still move about without causing embarrassment to others, whereas Serafina preferred to wait out her time in the privacy of her home. The two women, so very different in every way, now fashioned baby clothes together, united by their mutual status of approaching motherhood.

  When Serafina’s twin sister joined them, Jane would feel the disturbing strangeness in the presence of two beings so astoundingly alike, they seemed but one image split in two. Morgana did not prophesy as often as her twin, yet she too had a way of darkly smoldering, giving one the impression that any moment she would erupt, mouth what others might not want to hear. Morgana blind since birth, this did not seem to bother her unduly and, as her blindness was open-eyed, at first people did not notice, captivated as they were by her wide-eyed beauty. Jane often wondered what would have happened if these two strange and sensuous women had followed the ancient tradition of their origin, taken the veil, joined a Holy Order of nuns; what havoc these unholy twins might have wrought amidst a bevy of innocent virgins, their treasured chastity spoken for.

  Crocheting baby bootees, Morgana holding the wool while her reflected image wound it off into a ball, Jane conjured up visions of them as Holy Sisters running, their heavy rosaries flying, as lightning was about to strike them down; breaking into laughter—when she realized that she was having visions in the presence of the two who believed these were their exclusive gift.

  “Why are you laughing, Jane?” Morgana asked.

  “Nothing, really. That’s a pretty color of blue, Serafina. What are you planning to make with it?”

  “A jacket with matching cap. Salvatore will look handsome in blue.”

  “I see you’re still convinced your baby will be a boy.”

  “Of course. Morgana, put your hand on Jane’s belly—tell her what hers will be.” Imperceptibly, Jane recoiled. “She won’t hurt you—she too has the Touch.” As though she could see, the twin’s hand found Jane’s body, rested a feather-light moment, then returned to holding the wool.

  “Well?” Serafina asked her twin in Sicilian.

  Without expression, Morgana answered in the same dialect Jane could not understand. Feeling foolish to even be interested in their mystic covenant, Jane looked questioningly at Serafina, who replied, “You too will have a son.”

  “And?” It was obvious she had more to say but was reluctant to. “Serafina, don’t be silly—tell me. Whatever it is, I won’t believe it anyway!”

  “He does not belong to you.”

  “Of course he does! Sometimes you two can really be—outrageous!” Jane tied off the toe of one white bootee, began the other.

  Serafina patted her sister’s knee reassuringly, turning to Jane, murmured, “You will nourish, he will feed but, as the cuckoo does, so will he be.”

  Sometimes, Jane couldn’t get out of Stan’s house fast enough, reprimanding herself for ever going there in the first place.

  This time, no endless up and down, not even time for comforting chatter, Hannah arriving for her usual morning visit, took one look and ran. Having decided anyone with even a little experience in child birthing preferable to the callousness of Missus O’ Reilly, she headed for the house of new Missus Tashner, who was rumored to have healing hands and, as her mother was a midwife back in the old country, one could safely assume she must know at least the rudiments of birthing. Sw
ift, yet gentle, not given to ecclesiastical utterances, nor self-righteous fussing. New Missus Tashner delivered Jane of a healthy male child. His first cry, its anger controlled as though already a matured resentment, announced what he was to be. Hannah, cradling him as she had Jane’s first, looked for a likeness to his brother and found none. There was a bland remoteness about him that resembled no one—as though an opinionated old man had been transformed into a newborn, his mental age intact.

  “Well, that was a real easy one!” Missus Tashner exclaimed in quite passable German. “You did very fine, my mother would say you’re made for having many children. It is still early—so—you can rest until it is time to get up and cook your husband’s supper. Frau Geiger, I am finished here, so I will go now.” Noticing Michael peeking around the door, she smiled. “And here is the big brother!”

  Hannah placed the baby by Jane’s side, beckoned to him. “Come, Bubbeleh, come in, see your new brodder—den we let your Mama sleep a little.” Michael stood by the bed looking at his mother, captivated by her long hair lying open on the pillow. He had never seen it unpinned, it made her look so different, so soft, nearly a stranger. Jane folded back the shawl to let him see the baby and Michael was very, very disappointed. For months, everybody had been telling him how lucky he was, that soon he would have a brother or sister to play with—but this? This funny-looking thing? This was much too small to come out to play ball with him right now. He wished grown-ups wouldn’t do that all the time, forget to explain things the way they really would be, it made life very confusing. Seeing Michael’s disappointment, Hannah took his hand, bent to kiss Jane’s cheek.

  “I take Michael wit me. You sleep till John comes—and no getting up till de morning. After John see de baby, he eat his supper at my house, den bring Michael home.” Expecting it might be a girl, John was very pleased Jane had produced another son. He kissed her tenderly, murmured, “Grazie, Ninnie,” and, closing the bedroom door gently behind him, left to have supper at the Geigers’. Her body disencumbered, once more her own, Jane slept. The new life by her side stared into the darkness, as though it was familiar.