You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “No way. They’ll find a way to keep him out.” Carl was adamant.

  “He will insist on going if they call him up,” said John, ever the defender.

  “It’s embarrassing enough Ford has us out—at least his son should go,” Zoltan countered.

  Jane, clearing, ventured, “I heard young Mrs. Edsel might be in the family way.”

  Zoltan smiled up at her. “Well—if that’s so—that would help to keep our young heir safely at home.”

  “No need for sarcasm, Zoltan.”

  “None intended, John.”

  With a war not fought on home soil, everyday life is permitted its normalcy, children’s birthdays were celebrated—John’s first and Michael’s third amongst them and when it was time again for Molly to lumber down the street, his scalawags chased Mr. Kennec’s wagon for their icy treats. Fresh strawberries were made into succulent jam, ripe currants into shimmering jelly, wash hung out on the line whitened under a summer sun. Even with restrictions—Hannah’s Glory Day picnic baskets were packed, taken to Belle Isle, and even with some missing who had been amongst them the year before—it still was a happy time.

  Under the command of its leader, the First Division, America’s hastily assembled expeditionary force was creating havoc over in France, yet not in the trenches. Though the British were desperate for new cannon fodder as were the French, General Pershing was adamant that when America fought—it would do so within its own units, not have its fighting men integrated into the ranks of its needy allies back home. Not only patriotism made everyone want to attend liberty loan parades—they were exciting, offering marching brass bands playing rousing tunes accompanied by enthusiastic flag waving assuring glorious victory by investing in liberty bonds.

  Hannah’s first exposure to such joyful patriotism in the city of Detroit resulted in all future baking in the Geiger household being done to the vocal accompaniment of George M. Cohan. Beating a yeast batter was perfectly suited to a rousing chorus of

  “Over der—Over der,

  send de word, send de word, Over der—

  Dat de Yanks are coming, De Yanks are coming …”

  Whereas making beds required Irving Berlin.

  “Oh how I hate to get up in de morning …”

  For slicing onions Hannah’s repertoire went British.

  “Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag and smile—smile—smile …”

  She liked that one particularly because it had no th’s.

  When Mr. Henry, the mailman, marched off to war—a Mr. Jeremiah took over his route. A somber man given to endowing the delivery of mail with a holiness that bordered on religious fanaticism, Hannah never warmed to him, never worried about his health or his love life, even doubted that he could have one.

  “De Pope should have dat man for his letters!” she would grumble—as she concentrated on good toughts to keep her Mr. Henry safe from flying bullets and Oo La La French floozies.

  Later in the war when “How You Gonna Keep Them Down on the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree” became all the rage and Ebbely loved banging it out on her parlor piano, Hannah would nod her head in rhythm commenting that song illustrated exactly what she had always feared from the very beginning for the future of her Mr. Henry the mailman-soldier.

  Easter was long gone and as Rudy had not come back for a visit as promised, Hannah began to worry. It was already the end of August when Hannah answered the ring of her doorbell and there looking lost stood her Casanova Rudy. Pulling him into her house and into her arms, she held him welcoming him to safety. As he cried, she wondered what had broken him and why.

  “Sorry, Hannah.”

  “What is sorry? Nobody home yet—so upstairs mit you. Remember Stan’s room? Well dat’s de one I keep always ready for whoever. You go now, sleep. In a couple of hours I wake you to wash, den you eat. Like a skeleton for Halloween you look. No, no argument. Later is plenty time for talking. Now, you go!”

  And Rudy the broken man was shooed upstairs like the sad child Hannah knew him to be.

  Through the efficient Ford wives’ grapevine, Fritz was informed of Rudy’s return—told to bring only John and Zoltan back for supper. The others would have to wait, for Hannah suspected Rudy would not be able to handle the curiosity of all of his friends as yet.

  “Special good supper, Hannachen.” Fritz, stretched out in his parlor chair, fanned the lit match across the bowl of his pipe. “Rudy? … You ready to tell us what happened?”

  “Fritzchen …”

  “No, Hannah—let him speak.”

  His voice monotone as though without its controlled bloodlessness he would bleed anew, Rudy began.

  He had been late for work that day—why, he couldn’t remember, but he was. Standing in the open door, clutching her shawl, Frederika shivered—so he told her to go back inside the house and get warm and left … without kissing her good-bye. He never left without kissing Frederika good-bye. But that day … that day he had. Rudy stopped—the silent room waited. “It was already dark when I got home. I opened the front door and called her name. She didn’t answer. I called again. The house was still. I went to look for her. After a while … I found her. She must have been there all day—all alone—then … then I cut her down.” His haunted eyes searched the room. His cry raw. “Was it only the baby’s death? Hannah! Was it?”

  Hannah ran, crouched before his chair. “No, my Rudyle. No! It was to be; a long, long time ago already, it was to be.”

  Though they all knew complete healing was an improbability, still within the ministering safety of their compassion, they gave him time in which to heal. Each day Rudy’s friends tried to help him find his way back to life as he had found his way back home. Weeks later, deciding to visit his uncle Rudy, Michael ran the three blocks over to his second mother’s house and found him sitting on the front porch staring at nothing. Receiving no hello, the little boy stared in return but seeing nothing that could demand such undivided concentration asked, “Uncle Rudy, what are you looking for?”

  Rudy forced to acknowledge his presence tried a welcoming smile, “Hi, Michael—my God you have grown.”

  “Yes—I’m a big brother now—so I have to be growed.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “Uncle Zoltan say you are very sad and my Papa says so, too—why?”

  “Because my wife has died. Do you know what death is, Michael?”

  “Oh, yes—Mama says it’s when someone is gone forever and ever. But I don’t think so.”

  Rudy motioned Michael to sit next to him on the porch bench.

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Well, when I was little …” That made Rudy smile. “… I found a big fat worm and he was dead and I buried him in the flowers—then I went back to look and he was gone! I think when you die you don’t. You just stay living—not in the same place maybe and maybe you don’t look like a worm no more—but that doesn’t mean you’re dead like Mama says forever and ever.”

  Like two sage men on a park bench, they sat and talked of life and its many ends until they both agreed they alone had solved the riddle—that longing for what was actually never ever gone was just wasted sorrowing.

  Knowing her firstborn very well and where he usually could be found when he disobeyed her, Jane arrived at Hannah’s house to scold him and found Rudy playing pick-up sticks with her offspring. She didn’t say a word—just walked into the house to announce to Hannah that a small miracle was in progress on her front porch, shocking herself that the thought, even its designated word, had come from her.

  Although Michigan had voted for Prohibition the year before—the law was not scheduled to go into effect until 1918 so, when on the fourth of September young Mr. Edsel became a father they all could toast his son properly—Fritz approved that he had been given the illustrious name of Henry.

  “Now we have a Henry Fo
rd the Second—how about that? Like real royalty, eh, Hannahchen?” to which his wife agreed it was the proper thing to do and Stan remarked that now the Boss’s son couldn’t be conscripted.

  “Mr. Edsel’s no shirker!” Fritz growled.

  “No, but I bet the Boss is relieved he can now stop pulling strings.”

  John frowned. “He’s been doing that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Not easy for the boy.”

  “Never has been easy to be the only son of a great man.”

  “Yeah,” Peter drained his glass. “A father! Just think of it!”

  “Seems like yesterday he was a schoolboy in knickers home for the holidays,” Fritz agreed.

  Carl held out his glass. “Remember, Fritz, how he used to label the machines?”

  “Sure …” Refilling his glass, Fritz smiled. “What a boy. And his little notebook …”

  “Jotted down anything and everything that came into his head.”

  “Just like his father, Zoltan, just like him.”

  “Can’t call him young Mr. Edsel no more, eh, John?”

  “No, I suppose not—but now we have a young Henry.” And all the Ford men agreed theirs was an American dynasty to be proud of.

  17

  Out of breath—eyes wide with outrage tinged with fear, Hannah rushed into Jane’s kitchen. As the screen door banged shut behind her she gasped, “Through de window it came—BANG—CRASH!” and sank down on the kitchen chair, trying to catch her breath.

  Worried, Hannah did not panic; Jane knelt down beside her. “What has happened—is Fritz …”

  “Ach, no. No—tank de Lord for dat—but troo my fine front window—it smashed—a big brick—dey trow at me because I’m a Hun!” Hannah began to cry—not big sobs suited to her size and temperament but small hiccup ones, like those of a frightened child.

  “Oh, no—that can’t be the reason.” Jane holding Hannah’s hands patted them trying to comfort her.

  “Sure it is! De note say so!” came out between half-swallowed sobs.

  “Note—what note?”

  “Around the big brick, tied on—oh—Mein Gott! Vhat vill I tell Fritz vhy de vindow is broken? If he tinks everybody hates us—ve are de enemy not American—he vill maybe do bad something so angry. He mustn’t know—Ninnie, please, please no telling—keep mum, promise, not even John! I find a story, make up someting vhy vindow is smashed. But vhy? Vhy? Us good citizens have first papers already—even!”

  After this, which became known in secret as “de bad brick day,” Hannah became acquainted with fear-expected; an inner nervousness that takes up residence within the spirit as though its pleasure is its destruction. She rarely spoke of it, perhaps was even ashamed, considering it a weakness of character. But it was there—and as with all insidious fear, it feasted on its host depleting it.

  November brought its icy winds and the news from afar that Russia was in the possession of victorious Bolsheviks. Overnight those Russians on Ford’s assembly lines who retained their ancient loyalty to the House of Romanov became designated White Russians; those in favor of the new order, Red. Suspect that anyone siding with revolutionary concepts would most likely be prone to also embrace unionist ideology, these were quickly weeded out from the employment roster of the Ford Motor Company. The Boss’s vehement dislike of the very concept of workers banding together, empowered by a collective body to dictate to an employer, was a seething hatred throughout Henry Ford’s life. The Ford Motor Company was a free shop and as long as he, as its caring father figure, benevolent benefactor existed, dreaded union free it would remain.

  While impatient children waited for the expected magic of Christmastime, their elders worked to make it come true. Having kept the gingerbread house wrapped in baker’s parchment, Hannah needed only to replace the sugar icicles that had been eaten off its roof and fashion a new marzipan witch to restore its perfection. This year it was Rudy who found the tree, perfect in its needle steady symmetry, brought it home on the trolley all the way from—of all places—Greektown. Hannah approved—but kept wondering why Greeks would have Christmas trees to sell and how had Rudy gotten the idea that they would. Taking Fritz aside she asked if he thought maybe their Rudy was regaining his Casanova talents. But Fritz shook his head saying it was much too soon and she shouldn’t meddle, and to leave the poor boy be. Hannah chastised, gave her husband one of her looks and returned to her kitchen.

  When Jane suggested baking extra loaves of dark flour bread for her to distribute amongst her tenement charges, Hannah quite upset that she could have forgotten those in greater need, threw herself into baking so many that Jane measuring and greasing tins, knew she would have to ask Rosie and Henrietta to help carry their pungent Christmas bounty and that it would take more than just one trolley ride to do so.

  Now considered old enough, John, the younger, was permitted to join his brother in the very serious contemplation of where exactly the three kings should be positioned, then getting into trouble when he tried to eat the Baby Jesus. Being a child who preferred screaming to crying, he screamed when his father smacked his behind, but quickly refocused on the gingerbread boy that Hannah offered him instead. When Fritz and Rudy lit its candles, the tree glowed with the expected magic that seems forever new. Returned from his many adventures among the cantonment camps, Ebbely entertained a parlor sadly depleted of its former inhabitants. Though everyone ring-a-linged Hannah to wish those present a Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukah, even the excitement of hearing their voices coming over wires could not quite make up for them being all together as in days gone by. This year Fritz chose not to sing his “O Tannenbaum” considering such German tradition in questionable taste during wartime.

  On New Year’s Day it snowed so hard no one felt like skating; Johann went, but that was only because he was a Hollander and couldn’t help himself, was how Hannah explained it. Fritz lit a fire in the grate, Hannah brought her special biscuit tin of marshmallows, John and Rudy cut sticks for the children, Ebbely played catchy tunes on his new banjo while Jane and Henrietta made sure no one burned their sticky fingers.

  The beginning of 1918 held a singular glow. There were no factory layoffs this holiday season—America was at war and her unrivaled capacity to produce the articles necessary to wage it took precedence. Feeding this new army, Tuesdays became meatless—with an added meatless day mandated for every other day. Hoover, who believed that the world lives by phrases, had food messages printed in many immigrant languages including Yiddish. Those that appealed to Hannah, she pinned up among her postcard collection.

  There was: “If U Fast U Beat U Boats—if U Feast U Boats Beat U” and “Don’t let your horse be more patriotic than you—eat a dish of oatmeal!”

  As fresh produce could not be shipped overseas and meat was needed for the training camps, one of Hannah’s great joys stemmed from Mr. Hoover’s Food Administration’s zealous effort to retrain America’s civilian palate for meat—to that of fish.

  When Jane, having read “Catch the Carp; Buy the Carp. Cook the Carp and Eat the Carp” in one of John’s out-of-town papers, brought her the news, Hannah dropped her turkey feather duster, ran upstairs, reappeared with bluebird hat secured and market satchel swinging, marched off to the trolley and Detroit to purchase that so-longed-for carp that surely had become affordable because her lucky charm was now a sanctioned patriotic fish.

  Having taken another one of Mr. Hoover’s dictums to heart—“Do not permit your child to take a bite or two from an apple and throw it away. Nowadays even children must be taught to be patriotic to the core”—Hannah had Fritz build Michael a wagon so he too could show his patriotism by collecting household garbage. On the government’s solicited salvage lists were fatty acids for soap, glycerin for explosives, fruit pits and nutshells for carbon that went into gas masks, the rest was for pig food and fertilizer.

  Michael was very prou
d of his wagon—especially after his father painted its wooden slats fire engine red—but when just plain grease was hard to come by and fruit pits in March were few, he changed his patriotic objective and collected wanted paper and string instead.

  Although those employed in war work were exempt from rationing, by early spring of 1918, every household in Highland Park boasted one of the Food Administration’s signed pledge cards displayed in their front window. Still, not every day was dictated by a war so far away.

  Johann’s older girls now attended school, left each morning with their father while Henrietta and her youngest kept house and when everything was done to Dutch perfection went visiting around the neighborhood, usually over to Jane’s. Gloria—now a two-and-a-half-year-old bundle of flaxen curls and irresistible charm, aided by eyes that a summer sky could envy—thought Michael was the nicest boy in the whole wide world and never missed an opportunity to tell him so!

  At first the little girl’s cloying devotion had an adverse effect. Michael, very annoyed, tried to steer her in his brother’s direction hoping John’s usual sullenness would deter her from coming over all the time, but when one day John threw mud at her and Gloria, quite stunned stood there forlorn and cried, Michael feeling she needed protection went to her rescue, brushed the mud off her pretty pinafore dress—took her by the hand and whispering soothing words led Henrietta’s daughter into his mother’s kitchen for a nice apple to be eaten to the core. From then on Michael accepted Gloria as his unavoidable shadow—and both were happy. When Carl’s Rosie on her day off brought their twins—all the children played together, but the unassailable unit of Michael and his Gloria remained intact.

  Announcing that his company would refuse all profit from the manufacture of articles needed to win the war, Henry Ford stopped civilian production and Highland Park’s assembly lines turned out Model T ambulances, Model T trucks, Liberty engines for use in flying machines, even experimented with the idea of using the Model T’s chassis as a possible base for a two-man armored tank. While Britain’s order for Fordson Tractors were rolling off the line in nearby Dearborn, Ford accepted a government contract to build a hundred submarine patrol vessels. Never before had ships been built indoors.