by Maria Riva
What or where Ebbely was being profound and in what specific direction of insight—no one knew. Not even Hannah, although she tried her very best even resorting to jelly doughnut bribery—Ebbely divulged nothing of his “One Sunday Evening a Month Sortie” into the city of Detroit.
“You tink maybe he has a woman, Ninnie?” asked a troubled Hannah trying not to sound a bit jealous and failing.
“Oh, no! Ebbely wouldn’t do that in secret.” Dodging the subject, Jane made herself sound very convincing.
“Ya—I suppose. But why den so punctual—on de dot—he goes and all dressed up in his fine three-piece suit with de silk cravat, yet. I don’t like it—looks like hanky-panky to me!” Hannah rattled her pans—Jane opted for silence.
Later that evening as they were walking home John stopped suddenly, startling his sons following behind, turned to his wife carrying their youngest—and in a voice full of command and irrevocable decision announced, “Before that miserable Italian entry quota becomes law, I am bringing over my sister. Celestina can live with us—until I can find her a suitable husband.”
Ever since influenza had felled Ebbely then permitted continued living, a magnanimous gesture wholly unexpected, he had become introspective. As though weighing his past in order to rebalance this gifted future, he seemed preoccupied. Though he continued to play himself, he no longer believed in the role.
Army long johns long gone, newly emancipated women thumbing their noses at frills and finery—Ebbely now contemplated the beckoning charm of becoming a player of tunes.
“What you mean tunes?” on first hearing this Hannah asked, giving the utterance of tunes as though he had decided on becoming a rat catcher.
“Music, dearest Lady. I have come to the conclusion that the time has come to indulge myself. Life is tenuous, its very fragility demands one to look beyond those horizons decreed by need and convention to those that only beckon, their perimeters yet unexplored, those so virgin vistas of the perhaps still possible …”
“Maybe you still know plain English?” Hannah sat in Fritz’s chair ready to do battle.
“Oh, dear Lady—I am a little man …”
“No, dat’s just silly. After my Fritz—you are de biggest man I ever know.”
For a moment silenced—Ebbely murmured, “Thank you, my dear.”
“It’s true! So? Why you suddenly want to be a somebody dat plays in a honky-tonk place with no respect?”
“Is that what you think?”
“Dat’s what I tink, yes!”
“I don’t play well?”
“Oh, you play very beautiful—even on dat so funny banjo you sound nice—but …”
“But what … ?”
“Well … see how good I now say de double Us?”
“Hannah, you’re stalling …”
“Okay—playing for de joy it gives is one ting—playing for nickels and dimes is not.”
“Even if I enjoy it?”
“Even.”
“Hannah, I still have to earn a living.”
“Not dat way.”
“Well, of course I could always become a sporting man, wear a long feather in my hat.”
“What’s he do?”
“He runs a racy stable of obliging girls—the feather in his hat is a sign that he has personally tested them all.”
“You making wit de jokes again?”
“No, sage Lady—in New Orleans such men are very prosperous and duly respected.”
“Now you mention dis—dat so almighty place you love so much—is a place you shouldn’t be in also!”
“Oh my Juno! Now that you have stripped me of all my earthly pleasures—what divine concoction do I get for my supper?”
“Aha—mit de jokes—just to get out from under de serious—that you never like. I know. Okay, now I go make you stuffed cabbage how you like—but you better remember what I was telling you!”
When Rumpelstiltskin happened to casually mention the subject of his desire to change professions, Jane’s reaction surprised him by its enthusiasm.
“Oh, Ebbely will you really?”
“I am seriously contemplating it.”
“That New Orleans—you really like it there.”
Though it was a statement of fact not a question, he answered, “Yes—possibly even more than simply like. It’s a comfortable city.”
“Comfortable? You always tell me how exciting everything is there. ‘Comfortable’ seems an odd word.”
“A place attractive to variant misfits allows those of us imperfect to blend into its diverse brew.” Catching himself Ebbely apologized for perhaps sounding a trifle maudlin.
Jane reached out in a gesture of automatic compassion. Permitting her touch Ebbely patted her hand where it lay upon his arm.
“Are you that lonely, Ebbely?”
Remembering their time when he had seen her cry—Ebbely jumped up, walked over to the piano and played Jane a rousing chorus of “Oh! Susanna.”
Somehow spring seemed early this year. Bulbs for hoped-for daffodils that had been buried with such tender care back in September showed their appreciation by decorating Jane’s back yard border before she had anticipated their arrival.
Carl’s new marriage was beginning to heal his sorrow. Peter still grumbled at having to put up with a wife that insisted on working. Rudy, his injured spirit always lifted amongst the clouds, was flying again. From Holland, Henrietta wrote long letters telling of joy regained in a homeland loved.
Having taken over the family’s flourishing bootlegging business after her father’s death, Serafina was running it with an iron fist, a bookkeeper’s sterility of purpose. Stan somehow having lost direction, followed her orders regardless of where they might lead, while their son entranced by his mother’s power watched, learned, and waited for that glorious day when he too would flaunt armed bravado in the face of the law.
Having taught himself to read, young John now existed within the satisfying safety of books. Whenever necessary he emerged—but always with that smoldering resentment so common to the self-jailed, while Michael discovered that within a cardboard box containing brownish flakes that were proclaimed edible one could find hidden treasures, munched Mr. Kellogg’s new stressed corn with anticipatory glee, until one morning his father found the kitchen floor crunching underfoot.
“NINNIE?! How did the boy get this? Don’t tell me you spent good money on this!”
“Blame Ebbely. It’s his latest enthusiasm—gifts hidden amongst nutrition—don’t ask me why, but he adores it. Even has Hannah enthusiastic.” Jane poured her husband’s coffee.
Michael watched with apprehension as his father scrutinized a flake.
“It’s nothing but hardened corn shells. But the idea of flaking it, then selling the public the idea that it’s food, that it’s good for you, needs no preparation … that’s genius!”
“Well genius or not tell your son he has to eat what he spills or no more surprises!”
Winking at Michael, issuing stern orders to eat first, then search, John examined the day’s discovered treasure—a miniature flipbook that when riffled created comic antics in motion. “Ingenious!” One of the things Jane liked most about him was John’s unguarded delight, that instantaneous exuberance, whenever inventive skill, perfection in any form presented itself. “Ninnie, look—just a flip and the figures seem to move just like a moving picture show. What will they think of next! Good company—W. K. Kellogg. They have a knack for simple innovation.”
“Well, I still think it makes a mess and a bowl of cooked oatmeal is healthier.”
Putting on his overcoat, John offered his son an improbable fantasy as further incentive for tidiness.
“You know, Michelino, perhaps one day the gentleman who invented this will hide a little automobile inside with real wheels that spin and every
thing—so, you don’t want Mama to stop buying this, do you?”
Eyes aglow at the possibility of such an amazing treasure, Michael shook his head, scooped flakes off the table, threw them back into his bowl and wolfed down his noisy food.
“I don’t care—I still think eating and playing are two separate things.”
“So beware, boy! Mama is very serious today.” Laughing John kissed her cheek, hugged his eldest and left for work.
Easter had been, Passover had passed when John and Ebbely became disturbed by various newspaper reports of two Italian immigrants, tarred with the inflammatory label of anarchists, arrested for armed robbery and murder, that to them seemed to have all the earmarks of another immigrant witch hunt in the making. When discussing this with their friends they all agreed—Zoltan even remarking that the whole story smelled fishy to which Fritz added, “I have a feeling …”
Ebbely threw up his hands in mock horror, “Oh my God one of his feelings … !”
“Ebberhart! No joking on this. If these two men are accused of a bad crime only because they are foreigners—then that would be a terrible thing.”
“Possibly even more dangerous than the supposed crime I would venture to say,” Ebbely injected.
“John those two …” Fritz searched for names.
“Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti. It says here when the police caught them in Brockton, both were carrying guns.”
“Where’s Brockton?”
“Near Boston in Massachusetts,” John answered.
“This holdup was in Massachusetts and our papers here are making a big story out of it? Why?” Zoltan lit a cigarette.
“Ja—that’s right.”
“It’s headline-worthy in my Chicago paper too,” volunteered Ebbely.
“There too? I tell you, friends—nothing good will come of this—from now on all Italians will be ‘murderous anarchist wops.’ Sorry, John.” Zoltan ground out his cigarette, and decided it was time to go home.
The Geiger parlor was rife with troubled talk this year. Clutching the Dearborn Independent, Fritz stormed into the room, closing the door behind him. “Good, you are already here. John! Have you read this? In God’s name how can the Boss say such things?”
“It’s not the Boss.”
“It’s his newspaper.”
“It must be Liebold. Everyone knows he has always hated Jews.”
“And since when does the mighty Henry Ford permit anyone to think for themselves, let alone write his column?” Sounding particularly sarcastic Ebbely settled in his chair.
“It is terrible! Absolutely terrible, just terrible!” As if incapable of finding another word that could ever suit—Fritz kept repeating, “Terrible! Furchtbar! Just terrible!”
Carrying the Ford Weekly as though contaminated, Zoltan entered. “This is insane!”
Ebbely corrected him. “No, it is much more than that. It is meant to be inflammatory and therefore highly dangerous. The hatred of Jews is nothing new—they have always been hated—and always will be. But this glaring Jew baiting by the public tool of an American folk hero compares, in my mind at least, to a well-orchestrated public lynching of satanic possibilities!”
“Aren’t you exaggerating a bit? Who knows, there may not be any more such attacks after this one.” Zoltan tried to sound convincing.
Waving his paper like a truncheon, Carl rushed into the parlor. “Have any of you read this … garbage?”
“Ja, we’re just talking about it—close the door, Carl. I don’t want Hannah to know.”
“Jesus! Someone is bound to tell her …” Carl turned on John. “Well, and what have you got to say to this … outrage?”
“He thinks it can only be Liebold.” Fritz was quick to protect his friend should such be necessary.
“Impossible! Sure everybody knows Liebold hates Jews—but it’s Henry Ford who rules—he gives the orders.”
“That’s what Ebbely just said.”
“The man has gone mad—that’s all there is to it!” Carl flopped down in his chair.
“It may be all Edison’s influence. Have any of you thought of that?” Ebbely watched for the reaction he was certain this heresy would cause.
“Edison? Thomas Edison?!” John was incredulous.
“Yes, my dear still-wet-behind-the-ears-idealist Italian! The great Alva E—the idol, the divine god of your so equally bigoted Henry. For God’s sake, wake up, John! None of this is new—only now the shit is out—the stench proclaimed in print by the symbol of the American dream, the self-made millionaire whose so common man looks up to, believes in and will follow wherever he leads!” Explosive anger so foreign to Ebbely’s character—it now silenced those who heard it.
John’s continuing silence making him nervous, Fritz repeated, “Terrible! Mein Gott! Hannah! Hannah mustn’t know! All of you—you all have to promise me not a word! Maybe Zoltan’s right, maybe this is only one time and next paper nothing.”
The next edition of the Ford International Weekly and the Dearborn Independent had much more and the next and the next. In all, ninety-one articles of such vitriol, such extreme anti-Semitism that years later when these were published in book form under the title The International Jew, financed and distributed worldwide by Henry Ford, Adolf Hitler already enamored of the assembly line concept which he used in the rearmament of Germany, hung a portrait of Heinrich Ford in his office and saluted it.
20
The Nineteenth Amendment granting women the vote now law, Jane conscious of her civic duty as well as the heroic struggle waged to secure this right, approached John for some political insight. As usual when alone they spoke Italian.
“Now that women have been given the right to vote—does that mean I shall be allowed to do so?”
“Of course. That is if you want to.” John, concentrating on his evening paper, replied without lifting his eyes.
“A right so long fought for should be honored. Don’t you think?” Jane threaded her darning needle.
“Uh-huh.” Turning a page John added, “Do you think you know enough to vote?”
“Oh I intend to study—to inform myself on all the issues presented by … what are they called?”
“Candidates.”
“Please also tell me the names of the what is called the parties.”
Rather amused by his wife’s earnestness concerning political matters that were surely quite over her head—John put down his paper smiling. “Well, first and foremost there is the Democratic Party. Then the Republican. Those two being the most powerful, rule. But as this is a democracy, other parties exist and are permitted. There is the Socialist, the Reform, the Federalists, the Whigs and others—but of course, if you vote, you will vote Democratic.”
“Why?” Though an innocent question—it seemed to annoy him.
“Why? Because they are the only ones who know what they are doing and the Boss expects us to.”
“Oh, Mr. Ford approves of the Democrats?”
“Mr. Ford is a Democrat.”
“President Wilson is one too. But now Mr. James Cox is running, why?”
“Some say Woodrow Wilson is a sick man—his obsession for the formation of a body of many nations collective to ensure peace for all time is doomed and so is he. Some think his playing God has gotten out of hand anyway.”
“Does that mean that the Republican Party might win?”
John shrugged, “I am afraid so,” and went back to reading his paper.
Picking up her mending Jane murmured, “Oh, dear, Mr. Ford won’t like that at all.”
Hannah and Jane took the privileges of their new citizenship very seriously—they pored over newspapers, on their daily excursions to tradespeople questioned whomever they encountered. Discussed amongst themselves whom they liked—whom they didn’t and why. For some reason both were partial to t
he Democrats’ choice for vice president. Though Hannah thought him to be a trifle young for such a lofty office she liked Franklin D. Roosevelt’s looks—because they were so aristocratic—“Just like a real prince from the old country,” Hannah said. Jane thought so too—adding, “An intelligent prince” and wished he was running for president instead of the so less interesting Mr. Cox. Both had no trouble at all dismissing Warren Harding and Calvin Coolidge and their Republican platform of America First.
It was on a bright summer morning that Ebbely announced that before the year ended he would be leaving to prepare for a new profession—that of musical entertainer for hire available for nuptials, births, funerals, and other such frivolous occasions. As this latest endeavor necessitated forceful advertising, to accommodate the limited space for this purpose on sandwich boards he decided to drop Hardt, Bein, and Isadore from his given name leaving a simple, straightforward, no-nonsense Ebb Fish—“that’s with two b’s as in tide” in its place. Well, how does that strike you?”
No one knew what to say. Ominously calm Hannah inquired, “So … your good name no good no more?”
“There are reasons, my dear.”
“Reasons? What reasons?”
Fritz jumped in. “You have a date to leave?”
“It has to be before the winter sets in and makes the roads impassable.”
“Reasons—what reasons?” Hannah persisted, tone glacial.
“Now, my dear, is not the time to go into them. Trust me.”
“Oh, I trust you. I tink you have gone crazy in de head, dat you running away will solve notting—dat you, a once-upon-a-time so smart, educated, by-everybody-envied gentleman, are all of a sudden a crazy meshugah, but … I trust you.”
Jumping up Ebbely hugged her. “Dear Colossus of my tiny heart, how I shall miss you!”
Looking down at where he knelt by her chair, the object of his adoration retorted, “Aha! If already you know dat much … stay!”
Fritz cleared his throat. “Ebberhardt?”
“Yes, my friend?”