You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “Enough, Hannahchen—enough. We go now.”

  In new frocks sewn especially for this once-in-a-lifetime day, Jane and Hannah drove with their husbands to the city of Detroit to pledge their allegiance as true citizens of the United States of America. At last that longed-for dream had become a reality.

  On their triumphal return they were greeted by family, friends, children and neighbors all waving little American flags—courtesy of Mr. Henry, the mailman.

  What a prideful day that was! For such a day, breaking the law seemed essential. From some dubious source Ebbely produced pre-Prohibition champagne. Not one but three whole bottles, popped their corks with ceremonial flourish and pronounced the toast.

  “To my dearest friends, welcome to my country as the best example of its citizenry!”

  Michael very impressed by the jubilant proceedings—went amongst the well-wishers announcing that as he was already a real borned American he was glad his Papa and his Mama were now too.

  The very next day was the day of Jane’s great surprise. Ebbely drove it home, John struggled to get it into the house, where, clumsily wrapped in thick brown paper, it stood in the center of the living room waiting for Jane to unwrap it.

  “Ninnie! I’m back. Come down.”

  Wondering why he was home in the middle of the day, and why he sounded so excited, Jane came down the short flight of stairs—the children following her. Taking her hand, John led her to his gift.

  “For you, Ninnie—open it.”

  Telling the excited children to behave themselves, he sat down with the youngest on his lap—watching his wife’s face. Puzzled, wondering what such an odd package could contain and why John would give her another present when becoming an American was already the best of all gifts—she pulled off the thick paper—and gasped.

  At first she just couldn’t believe it—looked over at John—saw his joyous grin—then back at the marvel standing right there before her in her very own living room. Running, she threw her arms around her grinning husband giving him a fast kiss before returning to her breathtaking surprise—a high-arm, five-drawer, walnut woodwork, model No. 5 Singer sewing machine just as she had seen it illustrated in Hannah’s mail order catalog of the Montgomery Ward Company of Chicago.

  “Ninnie, it’s only a secondhand—but I checked out all the parts, they work fine. The foot pedal needed a little readjustment but otherwise everything works as it should.”

  “Oh—John—it is the most beautiful machine I have ever seen! All I have ever wished for. Now I can make your shirts in a day—even suits and all the children’s clothes in only half the time. Does Hannah know? I must tell her!” At the door she turned—rushed back, kissed him again—murmured a shy “Thank you” before grabbing her hat and running down the street with her exciting news.

  Laughing, John began tidying up the wrapping paper, his sons watching still astounded by so much affection—such enthusiastic kissing on display between such usually self-contained people puzzled them as much as the weird-looking contraption that had caused the fuss.

  That Singer magnificence must have been the most pampered machine in all of Michigan. It was stroked, touched ever with reverence, oiled, polished, every screw promptly adjusted with care, at night covered against possible cold, in the daytime when not in use, which was rare indeed, covered against possible dust. Although her loyalty to Lizzie demanded she be foremost in her regard, in private Jane’s devotion to her sewing machine even eclipsed the Model T.

  Before Thanksgiving Jane received yet another luxury. A real crib. Though used, it was like new with its iron rungs painted glossy white without a single chip. A generous gift from young Mrs. Ziewacz, once a fellow Watcher, whose husband having fallen at the Battle of the Somme had no more need of it. When first put inside this new enclosure—Jane’s baby looked about him, assessing its restricted boundaries. After a while, as if a conclusion reached, fell sound asleep. Jane had the feeling that cages did not trouble Billy.

  This year Michael got his wish to be a Model T. Jane sewed him one out of black felt to go trick-or-treating in. His brother John got the ghostly sheet, which he rather liked for it hid him from the world.

  By Thanksgiving mail from Europe was once again arriving regularly. Finally having received a long account from his family, John was full of plans.

  “For the New Year, I shall have the means for Celestina to make the journey, bring her to America. Now that Gina has stolen her rich beau right from under her nose—of course who can blame him. Once my pretty sister made her mind up to get him he was lost anyway—so, much better to get Celestina away from there before she cries herself into a decline and pines away—driving my parents crazy.” John chuckled visualizing his so inseparable sisters now at loggerheads over a mere suitor. “And Ninnie, once you have taught her English—I’ll find her a good reliable husband to take care of her.”

  Having known her sister-in-law since their childhood, Jane thought it far more likely that Celestina would find her own, but said nothing.

  Motoring down Prospect Avenue, Ebbely saw it first. A working-class house, like all the others in Highland Park, this one exceptional by a dormer window tucked beneath its gabled roof signaling the possibility of an extra room.

  “John, I found you a house! Couldn’t resist investigating, rang the bell and lo and behold find a Dalmatian returning to a country that doesn’t even exist anymore, but still wants to sell!”

  “What house? What are you talking about?” Parking his bicycle on the back porch, John motioned Ebbely to follow him into the kitchen. At the sink—Jane moved aside to allow her husband to wash his hands.

  “Good evening, Tall Lady of multitudinous brood,” Ebbely acknowledged her smiled welcome, “and that is exactly why I am here, John. Ask your Lady. Ask her where your latest offspring resides. Well—go on.”

  “In my sewing alcove,” Jane answered for her husband, who appeared utterly confused.

  “Aha! Just what I surmised. Your wife whose dressmaking skills are known far and wide and duly admired has sacrificed her very own sanctum for the sole benefit of your latest without a murmur of dissent. A jewel, your wife—a precious jewel!”

  “And?” John dried his hands.

  “Well, my friend, what you need is a house that will not only accommodate your growing family, but offer the mother of your children a space of her very own in which to practice her admirable profession of superlative seamstress. For heaven’s sake, man, you gave her that magnificent sewing machine—now give her a room to use it in!” Receiving no answering enthusiasm, exasperated Ebbely stamped his foot, exclaimed, “Well? Are you coming? I told the owner I would bring you around this evening.” And pulling John out of his kitchen—Ebbely got his way.

  Far into the night they talked, by morning having agreed that Ebbely, as was his want, had been as sensible as always, John began the necessary preparations to sell one home in order to acquire another.

  With everyone pitching in during the resumed layoffs, John’s family was moved and settled, in time for the holidays, and for a while that little room tucked under the eaves became Jane’s very own luxury.

  Like a proud teacher taking perfect attendance, Hannah looked about her crowded living room and beamed. Over there was Peter and his Dora, Zoltan and his nice Agnes, by the tree Carl’s little Violet in a new party dress holding her father’s hand. John with his Ninnie, the little one cradled by her heart, their handsome sons in their brand-new, just-finished-in-time sailor suits, Rudy returned, a new man full of life, all sadness gone, even Stan with Serafina, their Angelo intrigued by the menorah wondering what it was for, Morgana explaining it to him. By the punch bowl Mr. Henry ten pounds heavier, looking fit, her Ebbely in his Christmas vest of scarlet perched, ready on his piano stool. Looking up at Fritz, she whispered, “Everybody! Dey all came, Fritzchen. All our children and dere children dey came. If only Jimm
y and Johann and …”

  “Now, don’t start, I know.” Giving her a reassuring squeeze Fritz went to light the candles on the tree. They sang, they ate, they drank, they even danced. What a Hanukah-Christmas this was! Better even than all the ones that had gone before. A celebration of so many things; a war won, an epidemic survived, the glorious dream of citizenship realized, a healthy baby born, yet beyond even such milestones, there stood what mattered even more, had always mattered most, their friendship, their love for each other that had brought them back together, memories of those now absent, making them a part of theirs.

  On New Year’s Day this feeling of a family reunited persisted. The pond’s glistening surface echoing their laughter, no one acting their age except the children, they waltzed, played upon the ice using the children’s boisterous glee as excuse for their own abandon, everyone was certain that 1920 would be a special year.

  Industrial strikes that had started the previous winter, most for legitimate grievances too long endured, swept the nation—were branded as the obvious result of organized, subversive Socialism. Justified or not, all such rebellion painted the same color—the Red Scare soon took its toll. Ever the malevolent opportunist, The Ku Klux Klan watched, and waited for its turn.

  Yet in Highland Park all remained serene. With its patron saint dedicated to the betterment of his workers’ lives, morals and efficiency—organized and executed by a company wholly committed to the ultimate well-being of its workers at the Ford Motor Company everyday life was as fluid, uninterrupted as its now internationally famous assembly lines.

  It was January 8, a bright invigorating morning, when feeling guilty that due to illness and birthing she had neglected her monthly visits to the Italian settlements, that Jane took the trolley into the city of Detroit.

  As she stepped off into the street—a woman running past her stopped, clutched her arm, dragged her into the gathering darkness of a nearby alley. Desperation, overriding the usual deference shown to one of a better class, urgency making her Italian a jumble, she gasped, “Help me—I know you—you must help me—you can, you speak American they will listen to you—please Signora! Please! …” The child clinging to her skirts began to cry.

  “Tell me,” Jane said calmly, feeling far from calm.

  “My husband—Enrico—he works on the line—you know him—remember that day you come when …”

  “Yes—I know him—go on …”

  “They took him!”

  “Took him? Who? Who took him?”

  “I don’t know! Many, many women like me are looking—they say government men—they came and took all the men they found in the club and arrested them—now policemen have them.”

  “How many—do you know?”

  “No—but many, Signora—many, many are looking like me!”

  The little girl tugged at her mother’s skirts. “Mama, I’m hungry!”

  “Three days, Signora—three days now my man is gone—he left to go to work and never came back! Where is he?! Three days! He has no razor—no clean shirt. I never got his wage packet, I have no money for food, for heat—PLEASE, PLEASE, SIGNORA—HELP ME!”

  The federal consensus being that if one arrested the lot it would result in a sufficient number of subversives they were actually after, on January 5 the soon-to-be notorious Palmer Raids named after the secretary general of the United States who ordered them—struck without warning or legal warrants the meetings halls, card clubs, social centers of Detroit’s immigrant workers. To keep their illegal catch completely incommunicado, to avoid any snooping of the press, like a clandestine cattle drive, federal agents aided by the Detroit police, herded 150 frightened men from precinct to precinct—finally penning them in a windowless room sized for no more than possibly 60—lacking bathroom facilities.

  By the time Jane found this despicable holding pen, her fury had grown as had a group of desperate women and children trailing behind her. Blazing fury making her appear even taller than she was, Jane accosted the policeman in charge. A burly Irishman unaccustomed to having a female other than a whore in the station took a startled step back. Fists clenched, her English distinct, precise and wholly accusative, Jane advanced towards him speaking her mind and constitutional outrage. Huddled in the doorway, her group gasped. For most immigrants having escaped persecution in their homeland, uniformed officialdom represented not only imminent danger but certain defeat, now witnessing their only champion—a woman—not only threatening a man but one wearing a uniform, convinced them that now all was lost—they would never see their men again. Women began to pray, their children cried as Jane continued laying down the law to the Detroit constabulary.

  With her status as United States citizen, her command of English, her imposing stature as well as her seething outrage, Jane managed to negotiate not only the release of a badly frightened, bedraggled Enrico, but also a select few of equally innocent kinsmen, among them two ex-soldiers, their honorable discharge papers in their pockets, who had volunteered to fight for their adopted country and been decorated.

  It was Zoltan who finally found her, drove Jane back home to Highland Park and a frantic husband.

  “John, go easy on her—she’s exhausted—a courageous lady your wife—you should have seen her … well, she will tell you herself—have to get back—Agnes had supper ready when you telephoned.”

  “I’m sorry …”

  “No, no, happy to help. From what I saw you were right to be worried. Well, good night.” Consulting his pocket watch Zoltan changed that to “good morning” and left.

  Until dawn they talked—husband and wife suddenly equals—brought into balance by mutual anger. This night would add new dimension to their relationship—she for having convictions and the moral courage to act upon them—he for admiring and approving of her defending what she believed in.

  For Jane this night would often conjure ghosts. This first need to censure her new homeland disturbed her. A nirvana so all-inclusive of perfection had suddenly become marred by the actions of its own government and Jane felt a loss for what had been thought inviolate, perhaps too readily taken for granted. Taking herself to task whenever thoughts weighed too heavily—Jane turned her emotional back on the outrage of the Palmer Raids and faced what was faceable. This experience left Jane forever wary of the Irish and their penchant for embracing whatever municipal power could serve them.

  This year changes were everywhere. The Ford Company’s famous profit-sharing plan was discarded and the bonus and investment plan took its place. Most of the men, not understanding the change or how this would affect them, simply accepted their boss’s reminder that “thrift is an index of character” as readily as they had so many other homilies. The feared Sociological Department suddenly became the Educational Department, its ominous inspectors rechristened benign advisors, and so after much soul searching Hannah disbanded her Angel ladies and the Watchers were no more. The factory newssheet printed enticing advertisements extolling the advantages of purchasing not only one’s grocery goods but also the latest men’s clothing at the Ford Company store, guaranteeing the wise shopper that “a dollar saved is a dollar earned” which then could be placed within the safety of the company bank.

  On the morning of January 18, in pressed suit, high starched collar and band box bowler, the 1920 census enumerator appeared at 398 Prospect Avenue to record that its inhabitants were bona fide citizens, two by decree, three by birth. This first official documentation of her new identity so pleased Jane, in a rush of unusual familiarity she invited the so earnest gentlemen in for Prohibition’s latest stepchild—a glass of bubbling root beer, which he politely declined, stating he was strictly scheduled. That evening, feeling newly important for being recorded within her new country’s historical archive, Jane greeted her husband with “John, today a gentleman from the government came to take what he called ‘the census.’”

  “Did you answer a
ll his questions?” John dried his hands on the dishtowel she handed him.

  “Yes—they were very simple ones. Only the one about your work—what you do—I wasn’t sure of. But I didn’t let him see that.”

  John smiled. “What did you tell him?”

  “Well, I said my husband is a special machinist for Mr. Henry Ford. You once told me that. Was that alright?” Jane ladled out the soup for their supper.

  “Good enough—such things are not that important anyway.”

  Carrying the soup plates to the table, Jane thought that such a momentous occurrence of historical significance warranted more than such a dismissive remark.

  When new laws were proposed setting forth immigrant quotas—the mood around Hannah’s Sunday table smoldered.

  “You hear, now they say Jews, also Slavs can only come, only a few?” Peter, troubled, looked over at Fritz.

  “Ja—they say every country now will have a limit.”

  “I heard also no more than a hundred darkies are going to be allowed from any African country.”

  “Well that will be a new one!” Zoltan’s sarcasm dripped.

  “What about all the others?”

  As though wishing to finish the subject, John answered, “Germans, English, Irish are to have very large entry quotas—Lithuanians, Russians, even Italians, theirs have been drastically reduced. It seems that despite the war and now President Wilson’s lofty dream of a unity of nations, America may choose isolationism after all. Time will tell. Fritz, please … pass the gravy.”

  John’s overly casual comment surprised Jane. It was unlike him to choose to evade a discussion that could lead to an invigorating battle of diverse opinions. If Ebbely had been present he would not have allowed such a withdrawal—but as he was absent pursuing what he referred to as an “evening of profound insight,” no one challenged John’s opinion.