Homeland

by John Jakes

  He uttered a long sigh. “Sometimes I wonder how much strain the system can stand.”

  “Or this family,” Ilsa said.

  He found her hand in the dark and held it tightly. He lay awake long after she fell asleep.

  26

  Joe Junior

  AS HE LEFT THE brewery late on Friday, Joe Junior started sneezing. He hoped it didn’t mean illness. On Sunday he planned to go out to Pullman again, and he was wound up tight about it. Rosie was always hot, but lately they’d been frustrated by circumstances.

  Just last week, all they’d done was hold hands, and grab a few feels, and kiss with tongues; it was her time of the month. The Sunday before that, her parents had hovered in the house all afternoon, giving them no time alone. That kind of thing made him cross, and huge and tight in his groin. Sodden dreams relieved it only a little.

  His father always objected to his going to Pullman. Joe Crown disliked Rosie, although he’d never met her. He disliked her because she was a Bohunk; a lot of Germans looked down on people from Bohemia. He never criticized Rosie out loud—that would have proved him a snob—but he made his opinions known with looks and pointed questions whenever Joe Junior mentioned her.

  Of course his father objected to everything he did these days, and vice versa. It was hard to realize that they had once been close. He’d remembered that when Pop took Paul and Carl to the White Stockings game. He’d actually wanted to go along. Sure, he was working at the brewery, but he could have gotten out if Pop had asked.

  That day, once again, he’d been angry with his father, and jealous of Paul. The anger was particularly stinging because, when he was small, Pop had taken him to ball games often. In those days the White Stockings were playing at Lakefront Park, at Randolph and Michigan; you could see blue water and whitecaps from the stands. Joe Junior had fine happy memories of the two of them whooping and cheering for the Chicago team.

  Everything changed after he was thrown out of his last school, the Bayerische Akademie, a good, dull German school on the Nordseite. When Pop received the letter saying Joe Junior was dismissed from the Akademie for bad behavior, he and Pop had their most violent argument, full of shouting on Pop’s part, excuses and humiliated anger on his. That day, for the first time, his father struck him in the face.

  Nothing had gone well since then, if he excluded meeting Rosie; and he wasn’t even sure of the permanence of that relationship. At the brewery, he was secretly worried about rising antagonisms, Benno stirring up trouble with pronouncements, threats, that grew more reckless as conditions in the country got worse. Joe Junior sided with Benno most of the time, but he feared a moment when Benno might test him by demanding he take part in some act of violence. Some “propaganda of the deed.”

  All of his fears and resentments seemed to be connected to his father in one way or another. But in rare private moments, he could admit the anger masked something else. He thought of it as a stone in the deep well of his heart. A stone of sadness about Pop; a stone of loss that he would never raise into the light for anyone to see. Not even Mama.

  All of this was boiling in him that Friday afternoon.

  He came swinging past the corner of Michigan and Nineteenth in the dusty yellow light of a summer day. His shirt was stiff, and smelled of sweat. He’d been shoving kegs all day. He carried an old sweater slung over his shoulder; it had been cool and damp when he left home just as it was getting light this morning. Paul would be leaving home at the same time starting Monday. Joe Junior was secretly glad Paul had failed in school and was going into the brewery. It made them closer.

  In the side yard, Carl was tossing a football with two boys whose skin was the color of milk chocolate. They belonged to the old-clothes man who drove his wagon through the neighborhood once a week, collecting discarded garments, and even paying a few cents if one was particularly fancy. He saw the wagon parked in the alley behind the stable.

  He waved to Carl and the colored boys and cut through the garden, where he came upon his sister. Near the stone angel, Fritzi was swaying and dancing to music only she could hear. Her eyes were shut. She still wore the black crape armband she’d put on when one of her idols, Edwin Booth, passed away. He noticed a long scratch on Fritzi’s nose, not there yesterday.

  She heard his shoes scrape on the paving stones of the path, stopped her dancing and ran to him. He bent down for a kiss on his cheek. Fritzi made a face.

  “Phew. You need a bath.”

  “I’m going to have one. After I rest a little.” He sank down on one end of a stone bench, and sneezed.

  “Are you sick, Joey? There’s nothing worse than summer grippe.”

  “I’m fine.” He wiped his nose with his pocket bandana. “Where’d you get that scratch?”

  “School. Molly Helfrich said you were a red. I pulled her hair and she hit back. But I won.” He laughed. “Are you a red, Joey?”

  “I think so. I’d say I was a socialist, but not an anarchist.”

  “Why are you? Because Papa doesn’t like it?”

  “Sure, I can’t have Pop telling me what to think, can I?” Though he smiled, he meant it.

  After reflecting a moment, Fritzi said, “Is Paul a red?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Do you like him?”

  “Yes, I like him fine.”

  “Are you bosom friends?”

  “Friends,” he corrected. “That’s all.”

  “Mama spends an awful lot of time helping Paul. Fussing over him.”

  “You have to expect that, he’s still getting settled here.”

  “I guess I don’t mind. Not too much anyway. If it was anyone else I’d be spitting mad.”

  He laughed again, and tousled her hair. “Ah, love!”

  “Joey Crown, if you say that again, if you laugh at me, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you!”

  “Now, now, I’m not laughing. Not your dear brother.”

  He put his arm around her, and they walked that way into the house.

  Shortly after he finished bathing and dried off, he heard the faraway jingle of the telephone. He wandered downstairs and met his mother, who had just come out of his father’s study. Mama’s face was drawn and unsmiling.

  “Supper will be very late. Your father telephoned. He is at the county jail. The police locked up Benno Strauss this afternoon.”

  “Benno.” He thought about it. “I didn’t see him all day. I figured he was making deliveries.”

  “I don’t know why he’s in jail, your father didn’t explain. He’s in a fury.”

  The family didn’t sit down to Abendessen until a quarter after nine. Pop had come in at five past the hour, banging doors, stomping upstairs with uncharacteristic noise.

  “I will explain why I am so late,” he growled as he served himself mashed potatoes. “Benno Strauss left work at noon without permission. He went to the lakefront, downtown. There, he and some forty others held a parade, with signs. Ostensibly the purpose was to plead for jobs. Most of the marchers were unemployed. The police tried to remove them—”

  “Probably so the tourists wouldn’t see what’s really going on in Chicago,” Joe Junior muttered to Paul.

  “The demonstrators resisted and they’re all behind bars. Benno’s bail cost me thirty-five dollars. Cook County Jail is a vile place. I hope I never have to set foot there again.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” Mama said. “Benno isn’t unemployed, he has a good job.”

  “Which he clearly doesn’t value or appreciate.” He speared a piece of Mama’s German pot roast, dry and tough because of the delay. “I suppose he marched out of sympathy. Most of those arrested belong to some damned union or other, excuse my language.”

  Mama said, “Given how you feel about Benno, I’m a little surprised that you bothered to help him at all.”

  “It’s the principle. I had to help an employee. Benno Strauss could have stayed there and rotted for all I care. Joe Crown’s worker, though—he had to be helped.”
He speared another bite. “Heed this, Paul. When you start your job, see that you stay away from Strauss.”

  Joe Junior liked to see his father off balance this way; it seldom happened. He winked at his cousin. “Oh, there are worse teachers than Benno. I guess you had one of them in school.”

  His father had his fork halfway to his mouth. He dropped it to the plate, a loud clatter. “You keep your comments to yourself, young man. You know very little, you chose to scorn schooling. All you’ve been taught, you’ve learned from a pack of socialist rabble rousers.”

  “Well, I don’t blame Benno for demonstrating. I sympathize with anybody who’s out of work because of men like—”

  “Who are you to sympathize? Who are you to judge? You have a soft life, you don’t know the real meaning of hunger, hardship, desperation—”

  “Oh, here we go,” Joe Junior sneered, turning slightly in Paul’s direction. “Now we’ll get the story of the brave hard-working immigrant boy.”

  Mama jumped up. “That is shameful, young man. Shameful and intolerable. Go to your room.”

  Openmouthed, he stared at her. Standing up to Pop was one thing, but opposing Mama was something else entirely. Seeing her angry, her hands shaking noticeably, stunned and unnerved him.

  “Joseph.” Her voice dropped. “I said go. Obey me.”

  He threw his napkin on the table and left, saying nothing, looking at no one.

  Half an hour later, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, in a terrible state of confusion.

  A soft knock startled him. Mama came in before he could speak.

  “Joey, I am sorry I raised my voice to you. Unfortunately you provoked it.” He turned his head.

  “Please look me in the eye. Why do you delight in provoking quarrels with your father? He isn’t a wicked capitalist, he is a man of strong character who has worked hard to make a success of his life.”

  Somehow he couldn’t frame a coherent answer.

  Mama’s skirts swished softly. At his side, she touched his brow. Her fingers were gentle, warm. “Liebling, tell me. What is it?”

  He flung himself off the bed, away from her. He shoved his hands in his pants pockets and stared out the window at the lights of the mansions on the other side of Michigan.

  “He wants to control everybody. He wants to control me. But he left Germany because he didn’t want to be controlled, not by poverty, not by a rotten system that was growing worse—” He spun to face her. “He’s said all that, Mama, I’ve heard him. He came here, made his own way. He was free, independent, nobody bossed him—”

  “Nonsense. He had many bosses along the way. Bosses at the ice company, bosses at Imbrey’s. He had scores of superiors in the Union Army.”

  “But he always knew where he wanted to go and he kept going, he didn’t let anyone order him to turn in some other direction. All I want is the same chance. Don’t you understand?” Damnation … he felt tears. Weak little boy tears he couldn’t hold back.

  Mama moved near to him again. “I do, but I have a question, very important. More important than your wants and wishes, Joey. Do you love your father?”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Please don’t shout.”

  “All right, but I’m not going to take over his damn business, which is what he wants. I’m the oldest—he expects it.”

  “Oh, no. No, Joey. Perhaps he expected that at one time. Or at least he had hopes. But I’m certain that he no longer—”

  “It doesn’t matter, I’d never do it.” The shameful tears kept flowing. He beat his fist against his leg. “He can’t tell me what to do.”

  Mama took that with her usual composure. Said quietly, “But that is his nature, Joey. To organize everyone, every aspect of his life, and ours. If that is a flaw, we must accept it.”

  “Not me. Never.”

  She drew a long breath, as if resigned. She exhaled and her bosom settled.

  “All right, you have spoken your mind. Now it is my turn. It makes no difference how you feel, he is your father. So long as you live under this roof, he is entitled to respect. You will apologize to him.”

  She strode to the door. The electric fixtures lit her eyes in an odd way, making them glint like hard gemstones. She pulled the door open.

  “You will do it now. He’s downstairs, in the study. Waiting.”

  Most of the lights were out on the lower floor. The house felt like a mausoleum, and great shadows of chandeliers and furniture heightened the feeling. With a dry tight throat, he walked to the study doors. Tapped gently.

  “Pop?”

  “Come in.” His father’s voice had a flat, remote quality.

  He rolled the doors back. Joe Crown wheeled around at the desk, a pen in his hand, the usual papers and letters in various neat stacks behind him.

  It took all of his nerve to meet his father’s eye.

  “I apologize for my words and my actions at supper.”

  “Accepted, thank you,” his father replied with a quick little nod. “I too regret things I said. It was a difficult day, Benno’s arrest upset me greatly.”

  Joe Junior had an impulse to step across the carpet, fling his arms around his father, hug him, say he understood. He hovered on the point of it for a breathtaking moment and then something—too many memories; too many reprimands in the past; too many orders—shattered the feeling. He felt awkward, standing there. His father sensed it. Gestured with his pen, tried to smile. It was a poor, tired smile.

  “You may go to bed, son. I have much work left here.”

  “Yes, good night, Pop.” Quickly he wheeled and shut the doors. He leaned there in the darkness, exhausted; shuddering. Something had changed tonight. Tonight he’d confessed his deepest anger to his mother, and found she had no way to ameliorate it. The significance of that frightened him. He could never go back to the way it was when he and Pop went to ball games, because the anger was deep, and there was no remedy. Maybe this evening they had all recognized it for the first time.

  As he climbed the shadowy stair, the anger came surging back. He’d apologized because Mama wanted it, that was the only reason. Paul would start at the brewery on Monday. It was an opportunity. He’d really work on Paul. Win him over to his side. He’d fix Pop for causing him all this pain.

  Halfway upstairs, another huge sneeze burst from him. He leaned against the banister, teeth clicking, severely chilled.

  27

  Ilsa

  SHE SPENT A LONG wakeful night beside her husband. Joe had sunk quickly into sleep, perhaps to escape memories of the evening.

  This gloomy night when her husband and her son had let their terrible feelings erupt seemed to epitomize the unraveling of a summer that had promised to be rare and magical, this summer of the Exposition.

  Ilsa’s first disappointment had come long before opening day. She had very much wanted to be on the Board of Lady Managers of the Exposition, because the board represented a step forward: women doing important work on behalf of women. Ilsa had enough money, and certainly sufficient social standing, to qualify for a board seat.

  But someone blackballed her in the nominations committee. Later a friend told her it was Nell Vanderhoff. Her husband, Pork Vanderhoff, and Joe Crown had once been on reasonably good terms. Never close, but polite in their relationship as businessmen. Then one summer, at the brewery’s annual picnic, there was an altercation. Vanderhoff sometimes paid a visit to the picnic because his company supplied all the meats. Ilsa hadn’t attended the picnic that year, and Joe said very little about the particulars afterward. But he swore Vanderhoff was the aggressor, although ultimately, who did what made no difference. The relationship turned to ice. The following year Crown’s bought its picnic sausages from another packing house.

  Ilsa had attended programs presented by the Congress of Women during the month of May, as she’d told Joe she would. The Congress met at the Art Institute on Michigan Avenue, in newly refurbished spaces rechristened the Hall of Columbus and
the Hall of Washington. Ilsa had listened to Lucy Stone, frail and tiny but still a fiery speaker, declare again that forcing women to be homemakers, and only homemakers, was “a band of steel on society.” She’d heard others argue the opposite—that child rearing and household arts were the highest expression of woman’s character, and her chief purpose. She’d applauded her friend Jane Addams, who spoke on the positive good that could be worked in domestic service by women who brought to the job not merely a physical presence but true dedication and a measure of training, the kind of training Miss Addams’s settlement house offered in its programs for its poor clients. And Ilsa had taken Fritzi to one of the presentations by famous actresses, this one a historical sketch of women on stage read by Madam Modjeska.

  But it wasn’t the same as it could have been, had she been allowed to help plan the Women’s Building; helped judge the competition among female architects that led to the selection of a neoclassic design by Sophia Hayden, trained for her profession at M.I.T.; helped determine the size and content and placement of the exhibits inside. On opening day, instead of traipsing around the grounds with her family, she’d have been seated on the platform when Bertha Palmer and her committee dedicated the Women’s Building. She’d have been there with Mrs. Altgeld and Mrs. Adlai Stevenson and other distinguished women from all over the world. She knew Joe would have been proud, despite some of his primitive views about the role of women.

  She never said a word to him on opening day. She loathed self-pity and complaining. Still, the hurt lingered.

  And there was the matter of Pauli’s expulsion.

  Pauli was a smart boy, exceptionally smart in his way, but formal schooling was wrong for him. Further, he had gone through months of abuse and humiliation from a bad teacher at school. A woman who despised Germans. And she had pushed him into it.

  When he was expelled, Ilsa reluctantly agreed with Joe’s decision about the brewery. It was the only proper decision, but not a good one. Since hearing it in the study, Pauli had behaved like someone defeated.

  Worst of all, of course, was the argument this evening. Joe Junior’s apology solved nothing, repaired nothing. She had insisted on it because it was the decent thing, but she knew without hearing it that the apology would be hollow. Joe Junior’s rebellion was understandable. He was energetic, impatient, bright—all the characteristics that made young men assertive.