“Now don’t be silly, Morgana. You are excited and a little foolish!” The bridal finery and sewing things packed, Jane put on her hat and coat, picked up the carton case, turned at the door. “Is there something I can do for you before I go?”
Buttoning the long row of her bodice in that assured fingering that always impressed Jane by its schooled precision, Morgana smiled, focused towards the door.
“Poor Jane—you will have so much sorrow and yet so much joy before you reach what is still shrouded.”
Jane rushed home.
Now that noodle making was deemed one of many unpatriotic activities, Hannah and Jane had to find substitutes to comply with their weekly calendar of needed visits. Beating carpets seemed to fit perfectly into the time slot left vacant by the lonely noodle gone to war. On either side of a particularly resplendent example of Turkish artistry—they slapped away, creating clouds of dust that justified their decision to choose this activity over scrubbing the back porch.
Hannah coughed, “Oy—dis dirty I didn’t tink it was!”
“Yes, it didn’t look this dirty.”
“Dat’s de Turkish weaving—it’s so deep, it holds de dirt, but doesn’t show it.” Hannah lowered her voice. “Ninnie, you don’t think this is too German what we are doing for de neighbors to see?” Smiling, Jane shook her head. “How is Morgana?” Hannah lifted the narrow carpet from the line and replaced it with the similar one from before her side of the bed.
“She is so happy, she’s completely changed. Oh, she still has visions, but …”
“Ah, no-ting so special as romance of de young.”
Jane stopped in mid-slap. “What is that?”
“What?”
“That word.”
“Romance?”
“Yes.”
Hannah proceeded to conjugate the word in German, relishing Jane’s confusion.
“That important that word is?”
“Yes, Ninnie.”
“But, what does it mean?”
Trying to find the right explanation, Hannah stopped flagellating the Turks, indicated they needed to sit on the back porch steps to talk.
“Dis is not easy. But, de word is sort of de same, I tink also in your French you like so much.”
“Romantique I know, but the nuns never explained it. I read it though, but still it wasn’t clear.”
“Well … let me tink. First, it means a feeling. A special feeling, a special feeling dat makes de heart beat faster, de breath sort of go away because of big happiness.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be love?”
“No, well maybe, yes, a little. But dis is different, not so serious like love is, more just happy, young and turtle-dovey.” Not to interrupt this fascinating stream of information, Jane didn’t ask what that meant, although she really wanted to. “When romance is in de air—you can feel it, all over. Like when a sunset is so extra special—you get goosepimples. Ever have dat?”
“No.” For some reason Jane felt bereft.
“Or suddenly dere is music like de angels sing just for you. De first kiss you get from dat someone you really like and he tell you you are his little ladylove and de poem he puts den in your pocket so you can read it—quiet, before alone you sleep.”
Jane trying to absorb all this abundance of emotion laid before her, stared. Hannah thinking she still was unable to understand, threw up her hands,
“Ninnie! De Saint Valentine’s Day? Dat you know, well dat’s it! Dat’s when romance is in de air, in de fancy heart mit all de so fine chocolates!”
On returning home, Jane fished out the shoebox where she kept those things that mattered to her, unfolded Teresa’s letter, lifted from its pages the rose that John had brought her on that first Valentine’s Day in America. Careful not to harm it, Jane fingered its brittle petals, recalled the moment of its giving and felt again the unexpected joy of it—astounded that she had experienced romance when innocent of its very existence.
Ford’s inquisitors now equally empowered by law as well as their Boss, increased their pursuit of those immigrant communities identified as having inherent national traits for drunkenness. High on their list were whiskey-drinking Shanty Irish, Italian wine lovers, beer-guzzling Germans. For once blacks and Jews were spared such lofty ranking. Jews because they were “misers—too penny-pinching to ever fork out for a drink” and “coloreds—because they were too stupid and lazy to set up stills, or know what to do with money even when they got some.”
The temperance movement rejoiced—demon drink had been slain and saloons outlawed—and such Detroit landmarks of solace and humble comfort as the Bucket of Suds were shut down. Even famous Hatties and other brothels that depended so on liquor as companion enticement to purchasable sex could only offer the latter—that is until they became valued customers of Serafina’s family business and those on the ground floor of bootlegging operations who were reaping the monetary awards of sheer audacity with little of the criminal brutality of later years.
“Poor Rudy—not bad enough he has a big sadness so young—now dey say dey won’t take him for de war,” was how Hannah, while serving a Sunday supper, announced Rudy’s decision to volunteer.
John turned to his friend. “You’re full of surprises!”
“Ja—Rudy, why not tell us? And why won’t they take you?”
“I’ve got flat feet.”
“They won’t let you fight because you’ve got flat feet?” Fritz shook his head.
“Dat’s what I said, Fritzchen—what has feet to do mit shooting mit de hands?”
“I presume it is because an army needs to march,” Ebbely observed, helping himself to more coleslaw now renamed victory cabbage.
“Silly …” Hannah plunked down the potatoes. “… like Ninnie’s bubbele—bang, bang—everybody killing everybody—like children and what for—I ask you?! I tell you what for—de gravediggers—dat’s what for!”
“Hannah—you are a woman—you don’t know what you are talking about. Besides …”
John thought it prudent to interrupt Fritz. “Men are dying for the principles of peace, Hannah.”
“You hear yourself? What you say?”
Never had Jane heard Hannah so vehement—so defiant in front of men. Deep down she agreed with her—but knew she would never have challenged the men, when suddenly Hannah drew her into the fray.
“Ninnie—you hear what your so bright husband just say?” Jane nodded. “So? What you have to say to dat? You want your sons one day to bang-bang for real killing?”
“No …” Jane chose her words carefully. “… of course not. But our side is not the aggressor—America and its allies are defending themselves. When freedom is at stake—one must go out and fight for it.”
“Even to die for it?” John watched her. Jane felt him waiting for her answer.
“Yes—John.”
“Well said, Ninnie, well said.”
Rudy changed the subject by announcing that what he really wanted was to fly and maybe if the war lasted he might get the chance. He had applied for a position in a fledgling aircraft company and had been accepted. After so many years he would once again be an apprentice—but that mattered little in comparison to being in daily contact with his beloved flying machines.
“Just what you need, my boy,” Zoltan commented.
Fritz agreed, “Yes—nothing like interesting hard work to keep you from brooding over the past.”