“A place attractive to variant misfits allows those of us imperfect to blend into its diverse brew.” Catching himself Ebbely apologized for perhaps sounding a trifle maudlin.
Jane reached out in a gesture of automatic compassion. Permitting her touch Ebbely patted her hand where it lay upon his arm.
“Are you that lonely, Ebbely?”
Remembering their time when he had seen her cry—Ebbely jumped up, walked over to the piano and played Jane a rousing chorus of “Oh! Susanna.”
Somehow spring seemed early this year. Bulbs for hoped-for daffodils that had been buried with such tender care back in September showed their appreciation by decorating Jane’s back yard border before she had anticipated their arrival.
Carl’s new marriage was beginning to heal his sorrow. Peter still grumbled at having to put up with a wife that insisted on working. Rudy, his injured spirit always lifted amongst the clouds, was flying again. From Holland, Henrietta wrote long letters telling of joy regained in a homeland loved.
Having taken over the family’s flourishing bootlegging business after her father’s death, Serafina was running it with an iron fist, a bookkeeper’s sterility of purpose. Stan somehow having lost direction, followed her orders regardless of where they might lead, while their son entranced by his mother’s power watched, learned, and waited for that glorious day when he too would flaunt armed bravado in the face of the law.
Having taught himself to read, young John now existed within the satisfying safety of books. Whenever necessary he emerged—but always with that smoldering resentment so common to the self-jailed, while Michael discovered that within a cardboard box containing brownish flakes that were proclaimed edible one could find hidden treasures, munched Mr. Kellogg’s new stressed corn with anticipatory glee, until one morning his father found the kitchen floor crunching underfoot.
“NINNIE?! How did the boy get this? Don’t tell me you spent good money on this!”
“Blame Ebbely. It’s his latest enthusiasm—gifts hidden amongst nutrition—don’t ask me why, but he adores it. Even has Hannah enthusiastic.” Jane poured her husband’s coffee.
Michael watched with apprehension as his father scrutinized a flake.
“It’s nothing but hardened corn shells. But the idea of flaking it, then selling the public the idea that it’s food, that it’s good for you, needs no preparation … that’s genius!”
“Well genius or not tell your son he has to eat what he spills or no more surprises!”
Winking at Michael, issuing stern orders to eat first, then search, John examined the day’s discovered treasure—a miniature flipbook that when riffled created comic antics in motion. “Ingenious!” One of the things Jane liked most about him was John’s unguarded delight, that instantaneous exuberance, whenever inventive skill, perfection in any form presented itself. “Ninnie, look—just a flip and the figures seem to move just like a moving picture show. What will they think of next! Good company—W. K. Kellogg. They have a knack for simple innovation.”
“Well, I still think it makes a mess and a bowl of cooked oatmeal is healthier.”
Putting on his overcoat, John offered his son an improbable fantasy as further incentive for tidiness.
“You know, Michelino, perhaps one day the gentleman who invented this will hide a little automobile inside with real wheels that spin and everything—so, you don’t want Mama to stop buying this, do you?”
Eyes aglow at the possibility of such an amazing treasure, Michael shook his head, scooped flakes off the table, threw them back into his bowl and wolfed down his noisy food.
“I don’t care—I still think eating and playing are two separate things.”
“So beware, boy! Mama is very serious today.” Laughing John kissed her cheek, hugged his eldest and left for work.
Easter had been, Passover had passed when John and Ebbely became disturbed by various newspaper reports of two Italian immigrants, tarred with the inflammatory label of anarchists, arrested for armed robbery and murder, that to them seemed to have all the earmarks of another immigrant witch hunt in the making. When discussing this with their friends they all agreed—Zoltan even remarking that the whole story smelled fishy to which Fritz added, “I have a feeling …”
Ebbely threw up his hands in mock horror, “Oh my God one of his feelings … !”
“Ebberhart! No joking on this. If these two men are accused of a bad crime only because they are foreigners—then that would be a terrible thing.”
“Possibly even more dangerous than the supposed crime I would venture to say,” Ebbely injected.
“John those two …” Fritz searched for names.
“Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti. It says here when the police caught them in Brockton, both were carrying guns.”
“Where’s Brockton?”
“Near Boston in Massachusetts,” John answered.
“This holdup was in Massachusetts and our papers here are making a big story out of it? Why?” Zoltan lit a cigarette.
“Ja—that’s right.”
“It’s headline-worthy in my Chicago paper too,” volunteered Ebbely.
“There too? I tell you, friends—nothing good will come of this—from now on all Italians will be ‘murderous anarchist wops.’ Sorry, John.” Zoltan ground out his cigarette, and decided it was time to go home.
The Geiger parlor was rife with troubled talk this year. Clutching the Dearborn Independent, Fritz stormed into the room, closing the door behind him. “Good, you are already here. John! Have you read this? In God’s name how can the Boss say such things?”
“It’s not the Boss.”
“It’s his newspaper.”
“It must be Liebold. Everyone knows he has always hated Jews.”
“And since when does the mighty Henry Ford permit anyone to think for themselves, let alone write his column?” Sounding particularly sarcastic Ebbely settled in his chair.
“It is terrible! Absolutely terrible, just terrible!” As if incapable of finding another word that could ever suit—Fritz kept repeating, “Terrible! Furchtbar! Just terrible!”
Carrying the Ford Weekly as though contaminated, Zoltan entered. “This is insane!”
Ebbely corrected him. “No, it is much more than that. It is meant to be inflammatory and therefore highly dangerous. The hatred of Jews is nothing new—they have always been hated—and always will be. But this glaring Jew baiting by the public tool of an American folk hero compares, in my mind at least, to a well-orchestrated public lynching of satanic possibilities!”
“Aren’t you exaggerating a bit? Who knows, there may not be any more such attacks after this one.” Zoltan tried to sound convincing.
Waving his paper like a truncheon, Carl rushed into the parlor. “Have any of you read this … garbage?”
“Ja, we’re just talking about it—close the door, Carl. I don’t want Hannah to know.”
“Jesus! Someone is bound to tell her …” Carl turned on John. “Well, and what have you got to say to this … outrage?”
“He thinks it can only be Liebold.” Fritz was quick to protect his friend should such be necessary.