by Maria Riva
“Ninnie! Ninnie! Oh, Mein Gott!” Cradling the limp figure, Hannah began to cry. Death loomed large in that small kitchen—then Hannah collected her courage, took charge and the ominous specter receded into the shadows to wait for who would win the battle for Jane’s life. Half-dragging, half-lifting Jane up the stairs, Hannah covering her fear crooned, “Come, child, come. We do it, you and me togedder. Okay? I hold—you step—you can do it, Ninnie! We do it slow—see? You can do it!” Propelled more by her love of Hannah than her willingness to move, Jane tried to focus on lifting one foot after the other. “Good, child! Good! See—up we go to a nice bed and a nice cold compress on de so-hot head. Don’t worry about de children. I take care of everyting—get de doctor, get …”
“Hannah!” The cry was low, its fear raw. “I think I am with child.”
“Oh my God—how long?” Hannah stood white-faced before this new calamity.
“Two months, maybe.” Jane’s cough rumbled up from a phlegm-filled chest. Hannah, trying for an encouraging smile, failed.
“Well, okay, so we got to nurse one outside, one inside. John know?”
“No, I wasn’t sure enough.”
“So, we won’t tell. Better he worry just for his Ninnie now—later if dis baby not leave—stay mit you—den time enough for him to know good news all together at once. Now you sleep. I take children away from dis sickness to my house. First tell John where and what—den get doctor, come back here and we will see what we gotta do. Don’t be frightened, Vifey—I’ll be back.”
By nightfall Jane was delirious. Having scoured the neighborhoods, Fritz finally found a doctor, Hannah hurried him up the stairs.
“Doctor, she is in de family way.”
“How far on?”
“She tinks two months, maybe.”
“How old? First baby?”
“Twenty-two and no, dis is number tree.”
“Only the young—why only the young and healthy? God damn this thing!”
Later after a much-needed steaming cup of heavily sugared coffee, they spoke—their voices low, their fears apparent.
“Mrs. Geiger, that woman upstairs may not survive. If she does—I have grave doubts she will hold the child. She can’t be moved. All the hospitals are full. Compresses—sponge baths—try to break the fever if you can—and drink—make her drink—you know what to do—fluids, fluids—we have nothing. Nothing helps.” Nodding, Hannah helped him into his heavy overcoat. “There is a husband?”
“He is away working for Mr. Ford in Dearborn—my Fritz is getting him.”
“Well, just remember, keep everyone away—if possible.” The harried doctor and his trusty Model T disappeared into the winter night. The dreaded word influenza had not been spoken, both knew the enemy they were facing.
Like Gregory and Gloria and all the others, Mama would die—Michael was sure. He prepared himself for this ultimate of losses by pretending that his mother was well and that the whispered worry about the house was only grown-ups being overly excited about absolutely nothing. When Hannah moved him and his brother to her house, he left his home willingly without hesitation or defiance and did not question why he was not permitted to say good-bye.
The sudden realization that any moment his wife might be lost to him panicked John. For the first time since Jane had thrust herself into his life, despite its alarming beginning, John felt more than just having made a comfortable bargain. For some reason she had become precious, a woman of worth that belonged to him, who he wanted to keep, even love, if given the gift of time to do so. Looking down at her, knowing she was far too ill to recognize him—he growled, “Ninnie! You get well! You hear me?! I order you!” Grabbing her shoulders, pulling her close—he shook her. Hannah screamed.
“You crazy? Shaking a so-sick woman!” and smacked him.
“Well—you better make her well because I need her!” and shoving an outraged Hannah aside, John stormed out of the room.
“Was that John? Why is he angry?” the exhausted whisper brought Hannah back to Jane’s side.
“Because your so-scared husband—he loves you and don’t know what to do—how to help. No more talking now, Vifey—sleep—fever is down a little—so dat’s good news—sleep, Ninnie, sleep. He loves you, child—finally—he loves you.”
And Jane slept.
Downstairs, hands shaking, John poured himself a stiff drink. The possible loss of her had never entered his mind. He had acquired her as unavoidable convenience, a commitment made into a common reality accepted by both without complaint by either party. True of late it had become pleasurable in ways hardly envisioned before—still this slight adjustment in their relationship could not account for this sudden wrenching, this terror at the possibility of losing her. John was not a man who questioned emotion. Impatience with himself did not permit introspection. He loved, he hated, he liked, he disliked. Life was an exterior battle to be won, not an interior one to mull over. It therefore shocked him that seeing Jane’s face drained of life made him want to grab her, shake her back into life to allow him to love her. Knowing he had duties as a father before those of a husband, John downed the whiskey, and left to seek his sons at the Geigers’.
“Hannah—” the whisper sounded stronger.
“Yes, child?”
“Please, cut my hair.” Thinking Jane was once again delirious, Hannah replaced a compress without comment. “Please, it’s so hot—all this hair is so heavy.” As she drifted, Jane’s voice faded.
Two more such entreaties during the night and Hannah took Jane’s big dressmaking shears and cut off her long hair—quite shocked at herself for having the courage to do it. Receiving a sigh of relief as her reward, she settled back into her chair to watch over the sweet woman she loved.
Eight long arduous days the specter did battle with Hannah, then accepting defeat slunk away ashamed of himself for even having tried. Triumphant tears streaming down her face, Hannah stood in the doorway of her own house.
“She will live! Our sweet Vifey will live!”
Fritz caught her as she collapsed.
As though both scourges decided they had achieved their proper importance in the annals of history—the Great War and its companion, the Great Influenza pandemic, ceased their monumental killing spree by the middle of November 1918. Between them they had wiped out most of the youth of the world. In time, the war would be easily remembered—the other quickly forgotten within the euphoria of peace achieved. A collective amnesia within jubilation quickly blocked out the memory of a worldwide scourge as though it had never existed. Unaware they were statistics of history, people buried their dead, grieved, then forgot what was forgettable. Those who survived the Great War and its virulent companion acquired the inner scarring of both. Wounds seen and unseen—that for the remaining lifetime granted them were forever their own burden. As with all tragedy—those on the perimeter equally affected, needing help themselves, were expected by society as well as their guilt of survival to aid those who were beyond helping themselves. In all nations—those defeated and victorious, healing was assumed automatic through peace recaptured; that it couldn’t be—later generations would have to pay for.
The first arrival of overseas mail brought new tragedies for some—relief and comfort to others. New hope and unbridled joy gripped the nation—its brave boys had done what they had promised. They were coming home because it was over—over there. And the American parlor that had seen so many loved ones laid out to mourn over was rechristened, given the new hope-filled name of living room.
“Dat’s nice, I like dat,” was Hannah’s reaction when first informed by the Ladies’ Home Journal of this monumental change. “We dine in de dining room, now we live in de room for living—so what we do now mit de bedroom?”
This year Thanksgiving was one of true gratitude—whatever the cost, world peace was assured for all time. For those who had survived
whatever battle, being alive was sufficient unto itself.
After months of worrying, not daring to even think of what might have happened to him—Hannah finally received word from Ebbely. In that flourished penmanship so suited to his flowery speech, he informed one and all that the mighty Spanish influenza had clicked its castanets in his direction and he its innocent victim had succumbed, been hospitalized on the very day of his arrival in New Orleans. Weeks at death’s pearly gates, he had struggled against Lucifer’s avarice to survive—the remembrance of Hannah’s glorious suppers his only talisman. Still too weak to attempt travel, his body would therefore not be present for the holidays, but his undying devotion—that would certainly be, always. Hannah was so happy her Ebbely was alive she didn’t even shed a tear at his absence.
By Hannah’s orders, Christmas this year was moved to Louisa Street so John put up his tree, Fritz carried over the manger, the menorah and decorations, Hannah the gingerbread house—and everything else. No one came—but then no one was expected. For the children, normalcy was attempted. Familiar songs sung, candles lit, sugar icicles sucked—sad thoughts held at bay—while Michael and Little John concentrated on generous wise men and suppliant shepherds … Jane, carried down to sit amongst cushions engulfed in blankets, joined in the manufactured mood. So much had been lost—so little won. Death had claimed 1918 as its personal trophy. Grateful they had been spared, Christmas on Louisa Street lay becalmed.
As many had before it, the New Year dawned crisp, white and very cold. Only the pond was changed—its glistening surface uncrowded—practically deserted. His head bowed, lacing up Michael’s very first skates, John murmured, “So many dead—war and pestilence—what a combination.”
Always intrigued when his father was being serious, Michael asked, “What, Papa?”
“Never mind—now stand up—careful. Put your feet together—don’t wobble …” and holding each other, they slid away.
Watching them with a doting mother’s pride, Hannah smiled.
“Fritzchen, so big he is—already first time skating and no Ebbely, no anybody to see dis big moment!”
Holding her close, Fritz waltzed them onto the ice.
Alone at home, bundled up by the fire, Jane her short hair making her look even younger than her youth, watched as little John played with his telescopic picture blocks. She felt fragile; with the child still alive inside her, even more so. There seemed such a chasm between the year that had been and the one just beginning. Somehow life, the very concept of it, had changed and she carrying it, wasn’t sure what that meant anymore or in what direction to steer her gratitude for being granted it.
“John,” her voice hesitant, the importance of her announcement making her stand overly straight as though fearful, Jane touched her husband’s shoulder as he undressed.
“Ninnie? Are you alright?” His concern for her still delicate health was immediate.
“Oh, I’m fine! But …” she hesitated again.
“Well, what?” As nothing but her health was important to him, this sudden timidity annoyed him.
“I am again with child and I thought you should know.”
The unbuttoning of his trousers forgotten, John grabbed for his wife. She thinking he was going to shake her again, backed away; he laughing pulled her into his arms.
“When, Tesoro?”
Relishing him calling her his “treasure,” she nestled against him.
“Summer. Maybe July, but I’m not sure—the sickness …”
“You’re worried?” He pulled her from him to see her face. She nodded. “Oh, come on, nothing to worry about. You feel fine, you said so yourself—anyway, you’re strong as a horse, nothing ever fazes you. Besides, when a Ricassoli finds a woman to cling to, he stays put. Told the boys yet?”
“No.”
“Hannah knows of course,” John pulled on his nightshirt.
“When I was so ill, she had to know.”
“Come to bed, Ninnie. You need your rest—especially now. I won’t touch you.”
Hiding her disappointment at that last remark, Jane went to brush her teeth.
Her recuperation now linked to a pregnancy if no longer in actual danger of aborting, still at plausible risk of producing a damaged child, Jane became self-protective. Having been conceived within pleasure, even possibly love, this new being demanded her devotion as none had before. Beginning to love its father, she loved it, agonized over what might have happened before it was fully formed. Her fears hidden by an outward assurance that bluffed its daily way as though all was natural—Jane achieved the visual lie that she was whole, in benign charge of her female destiny. John just grateful his wife was alive, handled Jane like a breakable treasure, dared not touch her for fear he might do whatever harm men were supposed to be capable of at such times. Hannah knowing exactly what Jane was afraid of—prayed.
The end of war did not bring the return of all-encompassing peace as everyone had expected. Too much garbage, both political and social, lay heavy upon an isolationist land forced by a world war to grow up before its national maturity had fully developed. Being geographically so vast, before the age of radio, America was capable of absorbing inner upheavals, often making it appear when viewing the whole that nothing of great import was happening at all, but the Ford Motor Company on its home turf would soon feel the backlash of the social turmoil already sweeping the rest of the country. But not yet—for now those whose lives were irrevocably joined to Ford and his magical little motor—the glorious dream could continue, for a while at least.
Everyday life resumed its recognizable patterns. It was time to resurrect the snakes, their bellies restuffed, their loosened eyes resewn. This year it was the fate of old faithful Hercules to be disemboweled then reshaped into a younger version of himself.
With so many women needing widow’s weeds to symbolize their new station in society—Jane’s sewing room was engulfed in black moiré, black alpaca, black braiding and so many boxes of jet trimming that she had to move some of this somber bounty into the children’s room to have space for her dress form and cutting table.
Freed by death of his filial duty, Zoltan became enamored of a young woman employed as assistant librarian in the city’s central circulating library. Russian literature being her passion, they had met, late one afternoon just before closing time, between the rows as he was searching and she was at that very moment replacing a volume of plays by Anton Chekov that he was looking for.
Their mutual interests soon led to courting—but before committing himself, Zoltan asked permission to bring the young lady to a Sunday supper so Hannah could give her opinion of whether he was simply being a romantic fool or not.
The evening Zoltan’s first romantic fling was expected, his friends on their best behavior waited with trepidation for the woman who seemingly was willing to cope with repeated sneezes, coughs and wheezes.
Standing beside him, prim and proper, not a mouse brown hair out of place, Agnes Hepplewhite looked the strictly educated young lady that she was—until she spoke and a vivaciousness quite unexpected usually kept in check by necessity, bubbled forth and overflowed, the slightest of lisps only adding to her charm. Convinced that she was destined to be an old maid amongst dust gathering tomes, to have found a well-read gentleman who wished to join his life with hers seemed a romanticist’s dream from which she feared to wake. Everyone glad that he had waited so long before committing himself, approval of Zoltan’s choice was unanimous. Jane hoped she would be asked to make the wedding finery—but Zoltan in a hurry eloped, married his Agnes across the border and so though happy for the newlyweds, Jane, disappointed, resumed her work amidst her funereal hues.
By February, having been put in charge of the retooling of Building B, that colossus erected for the construction of wartime submarine chasers now being converted for peacetime manufacture of Fordson tractors as well as the bodies for
the latest Model T Sedan, John was absent from Highland Park and home for days at a time. Though she missed him, Jane occupied with children, work, overlaid by persistent apprehension, welcomed the respite from having to appear an untroubled wife to a deserving husband. While her body recovered, her inner strength was struggling to regain its equilibrium. Faced with the probability of bearing a damaged child, even one stillborn, Jane had need of whatever strength was available to her. As her pregnancy stretched before her, its remaining time became a term of anguished imprisonment awaiting calamity.
With the first faint flutter, hardly discernable unless one’s anxiety was fine-tuned for its arrival, Jane’s association with the being coming to life inside her took on an emotional closeness never felt before. Whenever it moved, its very liveliness seemed to prove a determination to survive that pleased her. Where as before she had never speculated on what she carried, now Jane found herself wondering if this feisty stranger was male or female even thinking of possible names though not actually daring to voice them. Watching the new softening awareness in a woman who though she had borne children before had done so simply as expected rote to the duty of marriage now actually wanting the one possibly denied her, convinced Hannah that this, the third child Jane carried was the first conceived within love and therefore uniquely precious.
Jane waited, sewed, and feared. On those nights when her husband was home he held her with infinite care. A man of his time, John knew the rules. Once in the family way a woman became untouchable, no longer useable for pleasure, now a life-bearing vessel to be guarded not invaded.
Licking the end of the silk thread, Jane poked it through the eye of the fine needle, thimble in place her skilled fingers took up their task. Sewing a wide, black satin border onto a mourning veil for one of her clients, she needed to concentrate on the delicate stitches this required, yet her thoughts took their own direction.