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You Were There Before My Eyes

Page 35

by Maria Riva


  The morning Hannah’s talking telephone actually rang, it startled her so, she dropped a big pot of boiling water, flooding the kitchen floor, screamed, “Gott im Himmel!” Not meaning the water—and ran! Out of breath, hand shaking clutching the earpiece, she yelled, “Hello? Hello? Somebody dere? I’m here!”

  Through the crackle, she heard a faint giggle, followed by her Ebbely’s voice, shouting, “Dear Lady—am I the first?”

  “What?” she yelled back.

  “The first! The first one to communicate through to your marvelous Christmas present?”

  “Yes! I got such a scare, I dropped de pot mit boiling water!”

  “Oh, dear! Hurt yourself?”

  “No, just de kitchen has a hot flood!”

  “I am relieved!”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. The reason I am telephoning …”

  “Yes?”

  “The reason I am telephoning …”

  “You say dat already, dis costs money!”

  “Precisely! I wanted to tell you that I shall not be coming back as promised.”

  “Oh, Ebbely—why?”

  “Because, I am in love!”

  “Where! Where you in love?”

  “In New Orleans.”

  “You go crazy dere wit one of dose Frenchie floosies?”

  “No, no, my dear. Nothing like that!”

  “Den what? Who is she?”

  “She’s not a she—she’s an IT.”

  “WHAT?”

  “MY EARDRUM, Hannah—PLEASE! I’m trying to tell you …”

  “So tell, already!”

  “I have fallen head over little heels in love with a new thing that here they call Jazz. Utterly sublime! Gets into your blood, makes you tingle all over!”

  “You in love with a girlie called Jazz who tingles you?”

  “I should be home by Thanksgiving, I’ll explain it all to you then. I’m taking lessons! …”

  “You’re taking lessons? For WHAT?”

  “Tell Fritz and the others hello. Good-bye!” and the line went dead. Stunned, Hannah stood holding the silent earpiece, staring at it as though expecting it to come back to life, when it didn’t, shaking her head, hung it back on its hook and, mumbling something about men and their consistent lunacy where no-good-Hootchie-Kootchie-harlot-hussy floozies were concerned, went to mop her kitchen floor.

  This year, Michael wanted to go trick-or-treating dressed as a Ford but, after his mother convinced him even her skill with the needle didn’t extend to fashioning motorcars, he consented and allowed himself, once again, to be draped beneath his ghostly sheet.

  On the first of November, All Saints’ Day, a strange choice for a wedding, in the splendid mansion of J. L. Hudson young Mr. Edsel married his love, disappointing the Ford wives who had looked forward to a big church ceremony that would have at least afforded them a peek, standing outside on the sidewalk.

  Fritz, uncorking the Schnapps to toast the happy couple, couldn’t get over that the Boss’s boy was suddenly old enough to marry, have sons of his own.

  “How time flies … seems only yesterday he was just a schoolboy, labeling his Papa’s machines. Every summer he worked hard, always had a cheery ‘Hello,’ never was a snooty Boss’s son. Now he will have a fine son of his own to carry on the business—make Mr. Ford a proud grandpapa. Here!” Fritz handed Hannah her glass. “To Mr. Edsel and his new Missus—the Good Lord give them joy!”

  Everyone now talked of the frantic construction going on to enlarge the already giant Highland Park plant to enable the production of the next season’s estimate for the manufacture of 540,000 Model Ts. Fritz kept shaking his head, remembering when they had made all of six in just one day and how proud they had all been to achieve such rapidity. One of Henry Ford’s pet projects—a Model T as a one-ton truck—was about to roll off its own assembly line and his latest passion, the transformation of his endless marshland holdings along the Rouge River into the greatest industrial empire yet envisioned where (as he had with the common man) Ford intended to free the small farmer from the backbreaking drudgery of tilling his land by manufacturing an affordable machine that would do the work for him—the Fordson Tractor. John, who had been so enthusiastic when first discussing the advantages of such a manufacturing complex along the river near Dearborn, now when congratulated on his clairvoyance—smiled, accepted his friends’ accolades, yet told no one that he was now involved in its conceptual design.

  Woodrow Wilson was reelected by such a small margin, it seemed that the country might be growing tired of its isolationism and, to avoid a verbal confrontation, Rumpelstiltskin sent Hannah an especially pretty picture postcard depicting bluebirds weaving a garland of forget-me-nots above a dainty damsel being gallantly kissed in a gazebo, telling her in writing that alas he would not be able to return by Thanksgiving after all, promising on his most sacred honor she could definitely count on him to be back in time to waltz her on the pond on New Year’s Day. Putting an arm around his wife’s sagging shoulders, Fritz tried to comfort her.

  “Ach, Fritzchen, I’m not so sad because I’m missing our Ebbely,” she reassured him. “Only I am so vorried—vhy is he staying dere in dat naughty place so long? Maybe one of dose Juicy-Lucies has him all crazy mit all dat lounging and reclining dat he likes so much—and what den?”

  Hannah baked so many doughnuts to keep herself from worrying, she started giving them out to her Watcher chaperones, telling them that whenever they found a poor misused woman, to feed her, as feeding in sorrow gave comfort to the soul.

  With Henrietta’s new baby next door, Frederika was nearing the breaking point. She could hear its cry through the thin walls that divided Rudy’s half of their house from Johann’s. At night, it sounded so like a stray kitten begging to be let in, she would wake wanting to do so, then realize it was only Henrietta’s baby. During the day, the cry made her so nervous, she invented sounds of her own to drown out those that crept through the wall, often huddling in the closet amongst her leaf-green finery where she felt safe, once more untouchable. On days when even this did not help, she would have to leave her house, walk over to Jane’s with a dress as excuse for doing so. Once arrived, instead of abating, her nervousness seemed to increase, as if she were confused by needing to escape what she couldn’t endure.

  Sensing her presence, John screamed his welcome, forcing her to pick him up to distract him. Jane had the impression she didn’t want to hold him, did so only to stop the noise.

  “That dress needs to be shortened.” Frederika held the baby as though he was a bundle of dirty clothes whose proximity might soil hers. “I presume you know the correct length that is now fashionable.”

  “I heard because of the war—in London the new length is now all of five inches above the ankle.”

  “That will make dancing so much easier.”

  “I don’t think that’s the reason. I think it is to make it easier for the nurses at the front and for those who are taking over the work of men.”

  “Women—doing men’s work—how ridiculous! Won’t help. Anyway—we are winning!”

  Scissors in midair, Jane stopped opening the hem of Frederika’s dress. “We?”

  Michael about to come in from the yard, took one look, saw who was in the kitchen with his mother, turned and bolted back outside. The boy had a healthy aversion to Frederika that at times Jane could agree with.

  “The Central powers, of course. Who else? You don’t honestly believe the British and French have a chance of winning against us, do you!” As this was said as a statement, not a question, Jane remained silent.

  More animated than she had seen her for some time, Frederika strode about, carrying Jane’s baby unaware she was doing so.

  “If I were home, I would be at the front—nursing our brave soldiers. But in this country? What am I? Nothin
g! Just sitting in an ugly little house filled with sounds that you never know when they will come, having to live with a man who actually believes building automobiles is important work!”

  “Frederika, do you wish you hadn’t married Rudy?”

  As if too much reality exposed, the question seemed to frighten her, which in turn fostered aggression.

  “What? What do you know! You’re so insufferably noble! Sewing, having babies like a sow—that’s all you’re good for—that’s your life and, as far as I am concerned, you’re welcome to it!” Without reluctance, Frederika shoved the baby back into his basket, picked up her hat and gloves and, ordering Jane to have her dress ready by the very next day or she wouldn’t pay for it, left. Bereft in his basket, aware Frederika had gone, John began to scream. Jane, concentrating on her work, let him.

  When Henrietta’s baby next door developed an ear infection that caused the little girl to whimper incessantly, Frederika, robbed of all rest, began to roam aimlessly about the house, a sleepwalker in daylight, in the evenings greeting her husband’s return as if she had forgotten he existed. Believing no other solution was open to him, Rudy made his decision to leave Highland Park, sold his half of the house, gave up his elevated position with Ford, to take a lesser one with the Packard Motor Car Company in Flint, whose advertising slogan “Ask the Man Who Owns One” rivaled “Watch the Fords Go By.”

  It was nearly Christmas when Rudy came to say good-bye to the people who meant the most to him. No longer the happy-go-lucky young Austrian, always ready for a joke, a good-natured prank, now a tired, strained man who had given up a nurtured dream in the belief that he could save a marriage already doomed, a woman’s sanity already lost.

  As if wanting to give of her strength, Hannah held him close. “Mazel tov, my Rudy. Here a home is for you—always.”

  Fritz wrung his hands. “We will miss you, my boy. So long it has been, all of us together!”

  John embraced his friend, “Don’t work too hard for the competition. Keep in touch,” then stepped away, embarrassed by his own emotions.

  Carl punched his shoulder. “Yes, you rascal. Keep in touch and, don’t forget, tell us if they are doing anything on their big, heavy cars that we poor little flivver makers should know about!”

  Peter shook Rudy’s hand, holding it in both of his.

  Zoltan just stood looking at him, not wanting to see him go. Stan, who had offered to drive Rudy to the station, took his arm. “It’s getting late. Come on, we have to pick up Frederika. It’s not forever! You can come to visit …”

  “Sure! Stan is right, it’s not forever. Well then, good-bye, everybody. See you soon. Maybe next year for Easter, okay?”

  Stan pulled him towards the door. Jane saw Hannah shake her head, not believing she would ever see her Casanova Rudy Zegelmann again.

  Now that winter darkness lasted into morning’s icing streets without relief, Jane, as his friends had, ventured to bring up the delicate subject of John becoming the proud possessor of his very own Model T.

  Straightening up from securing his bicycle clips, John looked at his wife as though she had suggested he buy himself a yacht.

  “Do you know that every morning rain or shine the Boss rides his bicycle from his house to his front gate and back? And that’s two miles and he’s fit as a fiddle. So?” And he rode off.

  Well, she mused to herself, if I had known that Henry Ford rode a bicycle I would never have even thought of broaching the subject of John giving his up. Jane shook her head. Everywhere one turned that man got in the way. Sliding the front door snake back into his position, Jane picked up John, who had crawled into the hall and took him back to his place in the kitchen.

  Overcome by a sudden urge to be girlish, Mr. Henry’s aging sister knitted him new mittens in alternating rows of Holly Red and Snow White to complement the Yuletide season. She had planned to add a tiny elfin bell to the tip of each thumb, but there the mailman had put his foot down, threatening to not wear them at all. Two days before Christmas, with paws resembling peppermint sticks, Mr. Henry handed Hannah a letter that had made the perilous journey across the sea, all the way from England. Knowing how fond her son had been of his American landlady, Jimmy Weatherby’s mother had written her of his death, enclosing a small photograph of him in his uniform, as a keepsake. Hannah placed it by the three kings and cried.

  Nearly everyone received Christmas mail from home. From Poland, a letter from his father informed Peter of the death of a brother, the gassing of another. Carl’s mother wrote, telling him his youngest brother, a mere boy of nineteen, had lost a leg, his father fighting on the eastern front was reported missing in action. From Flanders, Rosie’s family received a conciliatory letter from the commanding officer of the Irish Fusiliers, assuring them their son had died a brave soldier’s death for King and Country. Out of Rumania, now in German hands, Stan got news that his village had been razed to the ground, his parents fled, no one knew where. From Bavaria Fritz received a postal card from Hannah’s brother-in-law, the butcher, decorated with grinning gnomes, dancing around a Christmas tree on which was written, in bold German script, “WE ARE VICTORIOUS,” with his signature beneath, under which Hannah’s sister Anna had added, “Where is my Heinz-Hermann? What have you done with him?” No mail had come through from Italy or Bulgaria.

  When it was time and Fritz had lit all the candles on the little tree, they tried to resurrect the joy that once had been and failed. Christmas at the Geigers’ had come and was gone.

  All morning Hannah waited for Ebbely to appear until Fritz had enough and announced that if she didn’t come immediately he was going skating without her. The first day of the New Year had dawned so clear and crisp, by the time they got to the pond it was full of people enjoying themselves. Still a little dejected, Hannah was lacing up her skates when from above her bent head came a soft whisper. “Well? Do you always keep your partners waiting?”

  And there bundled in many scarves, one tied under his chin holding down his derby, stood Rumpelstiltskin bowing low before her.

  “You are here! Ach, Ebbely! I was watching and waiting at de house!”

  “Did I not promise? Happy New Year, Fritz! May I borrow your lady?”

  Fritz grinned, “Happy New Year, Ebberhardt—you should have seen her—all morning she’s been glued to the window looking for you … drove me crazy. Take her for God’s sake—she’s all yours!”

  Hannah gave her husband a look, put her gloved hand into Ebbely’s and off they swept.

  Later, cheeks red, exhilarated, the dampening mood of Christmas dissipated by the lovely day, they all met back at the Geigers’ for mulled cider and Ebbely in concert.

  And how he played! The piano jumped, he jumped, the whole parlor seemed to syncopate as his little fingers tickled the ivories—coaxing, cajoling vibrant infectious rhythms. Those lessons that had kept him in New Orleans for so long had surely been worth the time.

  Quite overcome by his virtuoso efforts, the little man mopped his brow. “Well, my friends … that’s jazz! Capital J, capital A and a Z-Z-Zee! How do you like it?”

  Carl scratched his head, “Well, Strauss it ain’t.”

  “You want Strauss? I’ll show you Strauss as a Southern Black—listen …”

  And Ebbely launched into an intricate improvisation built upon the Blue Danube Waltz. If those in the parlor had actually understood what it was he was doing, they would have known how really superb their Ebbely was. Michael was so taken by the beat, he started to dance—stomping his feet, gyrating his little body—Ebbely was delighted.

  “John, you’ve got yourself a real pigganinnie there—just like the ones that perform on the streets of New Orleans. Next time I go, I may kidnap your heir—show him off at a revival meeting. Next I’m planning to learn the banjo. As a matter of fact, I am seriously considering giving up unmentionables altogether.”

  Hann
ah was so relieved that jazz was only a strange noise that passed for music and not the name of a conniving, predatory Juicy Lucy who was out to ravish her Ebbely, she didn’t care what he wanted to do.

  While they drank their spicy cider, Ebbely entertained, finishing with such a thunderous rendition of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” they worried he might do himself an injury. Delighted by their applause, he swung around on his stool.

  “Thank you, my friends. Now that you’ve approved my latest passion, what’s new with yours?”

  John laughed, “Well, America now has more Model Ts than bathtubs.”

  “How delightful!”

  “Rudy left.”

  “What? You’re joking!”

  Fritz shook his head. “No joke. He’s gone over to Packard.”

  Ebbely refilled his glass. “I can’t believe it. For God’s sake, why?”

  “To get away. Take Frederika to a new place with no memories perhaps.” Carl volunteered.

  “Poor Rudy,” Zoltan lit his pipe, “now with Jimmy … two are gone.”

  “Well, at least Rudy’s still alive.” Ebbely turned back to Fritz. “The war, what’s the latest here? Of course, in New Orleans they are only interested in what’s happening to the French—and with the carnage at Verdun all is gloom.”

 

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