On New Year’s Day this feeling of a family reunited persisted. The pond’s glistening surface echoing their laughter, no one acting their age except the children, they waltzed, played upon the ice using the children’s boisterous glee as excuse for their own abandon, everyone was certain that 1920 would be a special year.
Industrial strikes that had started the previous winter, most for legitimate grievances too long endured, swept the nation—were branded as the obvious result of organized, subversive Socialism. Justified or not, all such rebellion painted the same color—the Red Scare soon took its toll. Ever the malevolent opportunist, The Ku Klux Klan watched, and waited for its turn.
Yet in Highland Park all remained serene. With its patron saint dedicated to the betterment of his workers’ lives, morals and efficiency—organized and executed by a company wholly committed to the ultimate well-being of its workers at the Ford Motor Company everyday life was as fluid, uninterrupted as its now internationally famous assembly lines.
It was January 8, a bright invigorating morning, when feeling guilty that due to illness and birthing she had neglected her monthly visits to the Italian settlements, that Jane took the trolley into the city of Detroit.
As she stepped off into the street—a woman running past her stopped, clutched her arm, dragged her into the gathering darkness of a nearby alley. Desperation, overriding the usual deference shown to one of a better class, urgency making her Italian a jumble, she gasped, “Help me—I know you—you must help me—you can, you speak American they will listen to you—please Signora! Please! …” The child clinging to her skirts began to cry.
“Tell me,” Jane said calmly, feeling far from calm.
“My husband—Enrico—he works on the line—you know him—remember that day you come when …”
“Yes—I know him—go on …”
“They took him!”
“Took him? Who? Who took him?”
“I don’t know! Many, many women like me are looking—they say government men—they came and took all the men they found in the club and arrested them—now policemen have them.”
“How many—do you know?”
“No—but many, Signora—many, many are looking like me!”
The little girl tugged at her mother’s skirts. “Mama, I’m hungry!”
“Three days, Signora—three days now my man is gone—he left to go to work and never came back! Where is he?! Three days! He has no razor—no clean shirt. I never got his wage packet, I have no money for food, for heat—PLEASE, PLEASE, SIGNORA—HELP ME!”
The federal consensus being that if one arrested the lot it would result in a sufficient number of subversives they were actually after, on January 5 the soon-to-be notorious Palmer Raids named after the secretary general of the United States who ordered them—struck without warning or legal warrants the meetings halls, card clubs, social centers of Detroit’s immigrant workers. To keep their illegal catch completely incommunicado, to avoid any snooping of the press, like a clandestine cattle drive, federal agents aided by the Detroit police, herded 150 frightened men from precinct to precinct—finally penning them in a windowless room sized for no more than possibly 60—lacking bathroom facilities.
By the time Jane found this despicable holding pen, her fury had grown as had a group of desperate women and children trailing behind her. Blazing fury making her appear even taller than she was, Jane accosted the policeman in charge. A burly Irishman unaccustomed to having a female other than a whore in the station took a startled step back. Fists clenched, her English distinct, precise and wholly accusative, Jane advanced towards him speaking her mind and constitutional outrage. Huddled in the doorway, her group gasped. For most immigrants having escaped persecution in their homeland, uniformed officialdom represented not only imminent danger but certain defeat, now witnessing their only champion—a woman—not only threatening a man but one wearing a uniform, convinced them that now all was lost—they would never see their men again. Women began to pray, their children cried as Jane continued laying down the law to the Detroit constabulary.
With her status as United States citizen, her command of English, her imposing stature as well as her seething outrage, Jane managed to negotiate not only the release of a badly frightened, bedraggled Enrico, but also a select few of equally innocent kinsmen, among them two ex-soldiers, their honorable discharge papers in their pockets, who had volunteered to fight for their adopted country and been decorated.
It was Zoltan who finally found her, drove Jane back home to Highland Park and a frantic husband.
“John, go easy on her—she’s exhausted—a courageous lady your wife—you should have seen her … well, she will tell you herself—have to get back—Agnes had supper ready when you telephoned.”
“I’m sorry …”
“No, no, happy to help. From what I saw you were right to be worried. Well, good night.” Consulting his pocket watch Zoltan changed that to “good morning” and left.
Until dawn they talked—husband and wife suddenly equals—brought into balance by mutual anger. This night would add new dimension to their relationship—she for having convictions and the moral courage to act upon them—he for admiring and approving of her defending what she believed in.
For Jane this night would often conjure ghosts. This first need to censure her new homeland disturbed her. A nirvana so all-inclusive of perfection had suddenly become marred by the actions of its own government and Jane felt a loss for what had been thought inviolate, perhaps too readily taken for granted. Taking herself to task whenever thoughts weighed too heavily—Jane turned her emotional back on the outrage of the Palmer Raids and faced what was faceable. This experience left Jane forever wary of the Irish and their penchant for embracing whatever municipal power could serve them.