“Well, well, John—what an interesting conclusion coming from you. You as a sudden sympathizer of Socialism?”
“No, Stan—freedom is a man’s right, his greatest treasure. When that is threatened—by any organization regardless of ideology—”
“Don’t preach, John,” Zoltan cautioned.
“I’m not. Free to think, free to do—free to be—brought me to this country. Come on—as Stan said, brought all of us, and if that is ever lost—so are we.”
“Well put, John,” Zoltan acknowledged.
“As you so often remind me—as the only true American amongst you—do all of you support this war?” Ebbely looked about the room. Jane held her breath.
“Yes—if by that you mean to stop it.”
“Ja, the killing must be stopped,” Fritz agreed.
“By even more killing?” asked Ebbely making Stan smile.
“If that will do it, yes!”
“Yes, Fritz is right. It must be stopped and if we can do it thank God for America!”
“Amen.”
“Mr. Ford says it’s the bankers who started the war,” Peter interjected.
“I thought he claims it’s the fault of the Jews,” countered Stan.
“Well, all bankers are, aren’t they?”
Ignoring Peter, Stan looked around the room. “My friends, all of you must begin to realize that Highland Park is no longer your world nor Henry Ford your Messiah, there is a darker side to our dream and I for one …”
“And so you will join those that terrorize their own?” John challenged.
“Terrorize, John? Don’t believe all you hear—the illiterate, superstitious paisanne of your country’s South look to us for protection … they need us. You know the Irish control all law enforcement—well now they have even organized what they call an Italian Squad for the sole purpose of keeping an eye on the dagos and what has terror got to do with it?”
Zoltan stifled a sneeze. “Stan, you a Rumanian taking up the cause—the plight of the uneducated Sicilians—very interesting.”
Having arrived to pick up her husband, Serafina heard Zoltan’s remark as she entered the parlor. Ignoring the others’ greeting—she stood before him annunciating his name as though the very forming of it was distasteful.
“Zoltan?”
“Yes?”
“My father’s organization offers our people the services without which they would remain the shunned scum they are treated as. I am proud of Stan. He will be a fine soldier in our war!”
“So the Black Hand thinks of itself as justified benevolence?”
Serafina whirled in John’s direction.
“How do you know its name?”
“My dear Serafina, such an organization cannot maintain its anonymity.”
“Certainly not in these days.” Ebbely enjoying Serafina’s obvious discomfort, smiled in agreement.
Without another word, Serafina flounced out of the room—Stan, murmuring good-bye, followed her.
Zoltan squirmed. “There, my friends, lies a danger far more immediate than even a righteous union meeting.”
“In a way I agree,” John sighed. “If the Black Hand takes control of the illegal liquor business before Prohibition becomes law in the rest of the country, there’ll be trouble—big trouble—”
“Well, for sure the micks won’t like the wops getting too power hungry—sorry, John.”
John laughed, “I love it, Ebbely—only you can get so downright American!”
Summer brought its accustomed activities, this year adding special occasions for jubilant news—the celebration of battles won, stretches of scarred land regained—marred only by the swelling lists of those sacrificed to do so. Death achieved in righteous battle was still a man’s domain. Women as wives, mothers and sweethearts were certainly expected to mourn the result—but being politically educated enough to have an opinion and voice this progression to their grief was as unexpected as it was socially condemned. As the war progressed, women who had been assured by recruiting slogans that their loved ones would return better men began to think that a live return might be preferable.
It was rumored that Henry Ford would run for the Senate—that President Wilson had personally encouraged him to do so. Stating every farmer in America would vote for him, many thought that if Ford wanted to, he could run for the presidency and get elected. Those whom the Boss recognized, even called by name on the factory floors, were proud to be singled out, cheered whenever he appeared. Although he did not campaign, posters reading wilson needs henry ford began to appear. In June, making good on his promise, the first Ford-built Eagle Boat was launched.
The day Rudy left to become a soldier in the sky—as Hannah described it—the Ford men gathered to bid him good-bye.
“You know you’re crazy, boy.” Carl hiding his emotion punched Rudy’s shoulder while Fritz stuffed a pouch of his best tobacco into his coat pocket. Zoltan blew his nose.
“Good luck, Rudy—and let’s hear from you.”
“Yes—don’t forget—write and tell us all about it.” John hugged his friend. Michael, aware something was changing, clung to Rudy’s trouser leg. Jane pulled him gently to her side. Hannah stood silent.
“Well-I-I-guess-I better get going …” The suspended hesitancy that always surfaces when good-byes could become eternal hung in midsentence. “Hannah?” Like a son leaving home, Rudy took a step towards her.
“You got de sandwiches?”
He nodded.
“And de clean underwear? De key to dis house in case you come one day back home and nobody here to let you in?” Again Rudy nodded.
“Well, den—so go already! But you just remember one ting—if you get yourself killed I’ll never talk to you again!” And Rudy pulled Hannah into his arms and laughed. When he was gone—then, she cried.
Fritz’s friend Mr. Horowitz took his Missus, said good-bye to their neighbors, left Ford and Highland Park, to journey to Massachusetts to be near their only son, Bruno, one of the forty thousand conscripts training at the hutted cantonment known as Camp Devens, before he was shipped out.
By the Fourth of July what once had seemed an impossible task had been achieved—an army of a million men fully equipped, trained and ready had arrived in France.
When at a fitting for a new summer dress, Serafina boasted that Detroit now had more speakeasies than any other city in the state, Jane just had to ask what that was.
“That’s a place that sells hooch.”
“Oh, Serafina, now what is that?”
“No wonder John calls you Ninnie! Hooch is booze is hard liquor—and a speakeasy is a place that sells it.”
“But isn’t that against the law now?”
“Of course—that’s why there’s so much money in it—and you know what … it’s fun!” Serafina admired herself in the mirror. “You have done excellent work on this dress. When I brought you the material I thought it might be too delicate to stitch but this is very, very acceptable. Can you have it ready by Friday? Stan will be back then and we are going dancing.”
“Friday? Yes, of course.”
Without care, Serafina pulled the half-finished dress off over her head.
“Want to know how to spot a place that sells gin?”