You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  It was in Constantinople that Billy too fell in love. It was one of those perfect loves of sighs from afar that valentines are made of. Even her name suited this pure, untouched, untarnished romance. The object of Billy’s first adoration was called Miss Peach and she was his teacher. This English schoolmarm must have been truly wonderful for he never forgot her—kept her close, as gently harbored when grown as when he was just a boy, daydreaming in class.

  Young John, now referred to as John Jr., though still resentful at having to leave Italy, excelled in school—became a leader within those student groups that attracted boys with opinions judged radical by others.

  Cricket and rugby were the sports everyone wanted to excel in. Some like Billy played excellent tennis hoping to someday captain the school team.

  Appreciated and respected, John was happy in his work. Despite being involved with his duties in Turkey his talents and expertise were often solicited for the new assembly plant being erected for Ford of England, this one in Degenham. At times it seemed he was forever in a hurry to catch a train to somewhere.

  When by decree Constantinople was renamed Istanbul no one who lived there took the slightest notice. Particularly the reigning British colony, who thought it an affront, blamed President Kemal and his young republic for trying to modernize a city that by its so glorious antiquity represented all that Turkey was, had been and should remain to the outside world. That image of being removed from the rest of the world was a pervasive norm in that part of the globe. Back in America the Great Depression was beginning its terrible journey—yet on the cusp of Asia Minor every day seemed to overflow with riches to be savored, enjoyed, held dear, remembered forever. If it hadn’t been for letters from home, no one would have been the wiser.

  Zoltan wrote informing them that Henry Ford had stated publicly that hard times were a wholesome thing, a purge against the debauchery of the Jazz Age, then commanded his workers, who were now forced to work below the celebrated five-dollars-a-day standard—to go plant their own food on his four-thousand-acre farm.

  … because of this royal decree and because everyone is frightened of losing their jobs some are actually doing just that. Secretly they call these plots shotgun gardens. Every day now we hear of another suicide and the Boss, he tells them to eat more vegetables! Of course with the unprecedented success of our new Model A, even our Lizzie didn’t have that at first, Ford is once again king of the open road and he knows it. We know it was Edsel who forced him to finally bring a new model to the marketplace but of course he will never be allowed the credit he so deserves. Times are really bad over here—newspapers are now called “Hoover Blankets” because so many homeless men use them as cover to keep from freezing to death.

  In his letters, Carl too spoke mostly of what was happening—worried for the country as well as his continued employment with Ford he mentioned that the “Cork Towners, those Irish ruffians always such troublemakers” were forming unions and he suspected had placed informers in the Ford railroad yards because federal Prohibition agents were staging too many successful raids at the plant. He added that although no one knew for certain what had happened to Stan, he had heard from a reliable source, that he could have been among the victims of a shoot-out between rival bootleggers that had occurred in Chicago on Valentine’s Day, because the very next day, Serafina was seen wearing widow’s weeds accompanied by their son and most of her uncles, had left to return to Palermo.

  Letters were the threads that connected Jane’s new home with the only one she called home. After hearing of Michael’s death, Ebbely had taken on the task of being amusing when writing Jane saving anything disturbing for those letters he addressed only to John. Sometimes, at breakfast when John was home, Jane enjoyed reading passages from Ebbely’s latest.

  “John, listen to this … ‘Oh, dear, oh dear how the mighty have fallen! Our Lizzie—our goddess of the muck and mire—our heroine of the oh so common man—gone—abandoned—forever lost to progress, greed and ever pallid tomorrows …’” Jane laughed. “Isn’t Ebbely wonderful! I do so love his exaggerated use of language!”

  “Still, there’s much hidden within that exaggeration.”

  “You noticed?”

  “Of course. I miss him.”

  “So do I. Do you think he is really happy in his New Orleans?”

  “Why do you ask? You think he isn’t?”

  “It’s hard to explain—sometimes I think he sounds too happy, as if by trying to convince us he is hoping to convince himself. Do you ever feel that?”

  “Often—that’s very astute of you, Ninnie.”

  Basking in his approval, Jane poured John his morning coffee. “In his letters to you, John, does he ever say anything …”

  “No—his life, that’s for you, for political and economic chaos, it’s me. He doesn’t like what is happening in Germany and neither do I—told me that Mussolini is a bigger gangster than a hundred Al Capones put together which I also agree with. Over the years I have learned that our Ebberhardt is right about everything and that I usually agree with him.” John finished his coffee. “Ninnie, they are having some timing problems in Cologne that I have been asked to check on—so I’ll be leaving for Germany by the end of the week. I shouldn’t be gone for too long.”

  “Will you be needing your good blue suit?”

  “Probably—you know the Germans—business discussions in restaurants over food is their specialty. Oh, and I’ll need those special shirts you made for me with the French cuffs—I find the Germans rate a man’s success by his cuff links. Have I got any worthy of them?”

  “No, but Mrs. Cooper showed me the store that carries them.”

  “The Coopers like you.”

  “I’m glad—because I like them.”

  John kissed her “I’ll be home for supper” and left.

  In his first-class compartment on the Orient Express John read the letter from Fritz that had arrived just that morning.

  Dear John,

  We are no longer needed—the Boss has forsaken us and Highland Park. That it should come to this—after all the years, after all we accomplished together is so unbelievable that I cannot believe it. Everywhere men, good, hardworking men, men we know, we trusted, who gave more than just good work, gave also their loyalty to Mr. Ford and his company—now are good listeners to the straw bosses who talk strikes, and only because they are hungry and afraid. Suddenly our Peter was let go—but nobody knows really why—but everyone thinks probably because here we will not be assembling anymore—just making parts, and it seems Highland Park men are not wanted at the Rouge. Who knows? Carl, Zoltan and me—we have talked a lot about the new orders and changes, and we think maybe we should go too before, you know, before it’s too late and maybe we lose our jobs too. Carl talks of taking his family—getting a job with Buick and moving to Flint. Zoltan, with Natasha still so young and Agnes again in the family way—says he has to hang on—he has no choice—and me? Well Hannah and me—after long talks and much pro and cons—we have decided to go back where we come from, maybe even safe. I have enough saved up to give my wife not maybe an American luxury life—but a nice comfortable one until I find good work again and the money we get for the house will help for the journey, and finding a small house with a garden maybe near her sister. So, dear friend, this is my news—sad and good together. Sad because a so special dream and a wonderful American life must be ended—good because as Hannah says, “you and your Jane and those beloved boys won’t be so far away anymore” and that is why Hannah cried not so very much after we decided. Of course I will let you know when all is arranged.

  Your friend,

  Fritz

  On his return from Germany, John—tired and strangely angry—let off steam in the safety of his home.

  “Ninnie, the world is going crazy! Back home bread lines and soup kitchens! Now wild inflation in Germany with the National Social
ist German Workers’ Party thugs just waiting for the old Hindenburg to die, if they don’t assassinate him first so they can put their Adolf Hitler in his place—Italy is in the clutches of an egomaniac—in France they are building that subterranean Maginot line—and for what? Spain is ready for a civil war and there is famine again in Russia and you know what that means—and what do we do? We build plants in every one of those countries and are teaching them mechanized production at speeds no one even knew were possible before Ford! Right now he is in Germany on a goodwill inspection tour. You know what, Ninnie? I am beginning to think the Boss may be as mad as the rest of them!” Shocked by John’s sudden so uncharacteristic disloyalty, Jane remained silent though attentive. “It’s a cesspool everywhere I’ve been—Cologne, Berlin, Barcelona, Bordeaux, of course Cork is a disaster already—and now Fiat wants to coproduce Fords for Mussolini. Only England, Holland and Denmark, even Belgium, are sane and here …”

  “I just heard from Mrs. Cooper that young Mr. Roosevelt—the one Hannah and I liked so much—he has been elected as our next new president—is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you have voted for him?”

  “Yes. Let’s hope he can save us.”

  “Save us?”

  “Ninnie, there was a hunger march on Washington—thousands of men sleeping in cardboard boxes that are known as Hoovervilles! All over America men ready and able to do a good day’s work are starving! Hunger in America? Ninnie—in our America?—the land of prosperity and endless opportunity?—it is inconceivable! Where will it all end? Who is there to end it?”

  “John, do you want to leave? Go home?”

  “If I was alone I would—I’d take my chances—but—”

  Jane interrupted him, “Even if Highland Park does close down Mr. Ford would never let you go—there is the Rouge—and I could help take in sewing and—”

  “No, my work is here—besides, Mr. Cooper has been good to me—I would never let him down.” Jane took notice that this was the very first time John omitted Henry Ford’s name when referring to his duty to the company.

  John lit a cigarette—its Turkish tobacco burned with a pervasive sweetness that Jane missed whenever he was away. “While I was gone did you receive a letter from Hannah?”

  “No—why?”

  “I had a letter from Fritz—I think you better read it—” He handed it to her. Sensing it must be something important Jane read it carefully—then taken aback, read it again. “Well, what do you think? Does it make any sense to you? No matter how terrible things are—leave America, leave Ford—for what? I told you everyone is going mad!”

  “They are coming? They are really coming?”

  “You read the letter.”

  Quietly—as though she didn’t dare to say it out loud in case it might not come true, Jane said, “Hannah,” it sounded like a prayer.

  John took her in his arms. “Yes, carissima—Hannah is coming.”

  Shy at exposing her longing, Jane buried her face against him, grateful that he understood.

  When Hannah’s letter arrived it was full of similar news—tinged with an overwhelming regret even a sense of defeat. Having been an enemy Hun during the war couldn’t compare with what had happened to her dearly held respect for Henry Ford. For so long he had been Hannah’s idolized benefactor that now that she knew he hated her by being a Jew, it was as though she doubted her own worth. Reading between the conscientiously executed lines, Jane knew it was this disenchantment that had made Hannah agree to leave, return to a home she had left so willingly when young.

  … Fritz, he has promised me that after a little while if we get too lonely, miss our America too much, we will go back and try again. Maybe have another cozy boardinghouse somewhere nice. So if now this is just like a long visit to see again old friends, then the sadness of saying good-bye to our Michigan is not so bad.

  Quick, I must tell you big news from here. First that nice Mr. Roosevelt we liked now is our new president and because he is—he has ordered no more Prohibition—so of course everybody is happy toasting him. And also because he is so smart all the poor people will have work again and food on the table and not be sad hobos anymore. Oh, and another thing—now we have a real station that beams (that is how they say it) speaking and music out into the air. The new Mrs. Polansky, two blocks over—she has a big beautiful radio in real wood with knobs and I heard out of it myself. What will they think of next?

  Having sold their furniture to friends, their house to strangers, in the late spring of 1933 Fritz and Hannah boarded the SS Bremen for Bremerhaven, at the same time that John having been called to Alexandria, and it being half term, took his family with him to Egypt. After their boat docked, John left them to enjoy Cairo while he continued on.

  Learning to know and understand Turkey and now Egypt very nearly made having to leave America worthwhile. Even when missing many of the modern conveniences, Egypt so mesmerized one’s imagination that after a while when such happened to appear, Jane resented their intrusion. Automobiles really had no business on roads that camels trod. For her the Industrial Age had no place in this overwhelming, somehow indestructible glory of pharaohs and their omnipotent deities. In this awesome land of constantly moving sand, its aura of permanence so quixotic, every dawn was a wonder, every twilight a yearning for repetitive tomorrows. When the hot winds blew Jane could smell the Sahara, Jane, who had never thought of Egypt as conjuring romantic visions was surprised that such profound magnificence could make one feel so human.

  John Jr. just seventeen graduated from the Sixth Form and now looked forward to returning to Italy to join the black shirts of his hero. Worried for his son, John made immediate arrangements to send him back to Michigan to live with Celestina, while attending university. Many heated arguments later—too angry to even say good-bye, John Jr. left Turkey, hating his father. Billy, who thought that going home, all grown up alone on a big ship was the ultimate prize for being an A student, buried his nose in his schoolbooks determined he too could achieve such a gift.

  Billy, as he would be known until true maturity required the disengagement of the y, was becoming an interesting boy. A jigsaw puzzle of many parts garnered from heredity as well as the kaleidoscope that life had spread before him, he encompassed the tenderness of Michael, the idealism and artistic courage of his father, the innate perception and profound respect of all beauty of his Italian heritage, the patrician discipline of his mother which made him already by the age of fourteen an intriguing, complex character.

  It was already September when a letter arrived from Fritz bearing a German stamp.

  Dearest Friends,

  Well, we are here. The fields are still full of fat cows—the mountaintops are full of snow—the air is so clean—so sharp sometimes it hurts to breathe it. We are grateful to have made the long journey in safety and good health. Hannah’s sister, Anna and her husband have been most welcoming—kind to let us stay here in their home until we find a place and our so many belongings coming over by cargo ship arrive. Remember Heinz-Hermann—Anna’s boy, the one who stayed with us before the war? He is here, is now an important member of the Schutzstaffel—in English that is “Protection Squad” but here it’s just known by initials, S.S. His father, the butcher is of course very proud—his mother too, I think, though Anna hasn’t said much about it.

  When she thinks I am not looking Hannah cries. Bavaria is not Highland Park—but then Highland Park was not Bavaria either. I am sure that once my Hannah has a home again and her own kitchen—everything will be fine.

  Here is the address where we are now. Anna’s husband prefers that I give you the address of his butcher shop downstairs and that any letter for us is addressed ‘in care of’ Herr Wolfgang Streicher.

  Ever your old friend,

  Fritz

  PS. Hannah says she is writing to your Vifey herself.

 
When an assembly plant for the Fordson Tractor was deemed finally possible in Rumania, John wanting to spare Jane the misery of returning, arranged to live and work in Bucharest, leaving her and Billy to the comfort of their accustomed life in Constantinople, arriving in the capital just in time for the widespread anti-Jewish riots that no one had expected. Newly loving him, for Jane these would be the lonely years, waiting for John’s infrequent returns, a repetitive discipline.

  Hannah’s letters as always in German were frequent.

  8 Juni 1934

  Großnöbach

  Bei Dachau

  Dearest Ninnie,

  Now it is here so pretty. Cornflowers and daisies all mixed up—like a flower carpet …

  Little bits of gossip followed, some description of who and what she was beginning to know, get reacquainted with—then there were moments when Jane felt her need for a real friend—one that could be trusted to whom Hannah could confide,

  … Heinz-Hermann, he visits often—in his smart uniform and he makes speeches—said that the Jews are a race not a religion group and that because they are ones that lost the war they must be punished. But I don’t know what kind of punishment. So I worry a little if his mother, my sister Anna, is going maybe to be punished. You think so? I asked Fritz but he said it is all just politics and anyway her husband is a good Prussian so why worry. And us—we are good American United States citizens. But still I don’t understand why they burned books. Did you hear? Even our Mr. Jack London and that nice young Ernest Hemingway that Agnes likes so much, they burned. Why? They didn’t do anything wrong—they just write special and they are good Americans also.