“Impossible! Sure everybody knows Liebold hates Jews—but it’s Henry Ford who rules—he gives the orders.”
“That’s what Ebbely just said.”
“The man has gone mad—that’s all there is to it!” Carl flopped down in his chair.
“It may be all Edison’s influence. Have any of you thought of that?” Ebbely watched for the reaction he was certain this heresy would cause.
“Edison? Thomas Edison?!” John was incredulous.
“Yes, my dear still-wet-behind-the-ears-idealist Italian! The great Alva E—the idol, the divine god of your so equally bigoted Henry. For God’s sake, wake up, John! None of this is new—only now the shit is out—the stench proclaimed in print by the symbol of the American dream, the self-made millionaire whose so common man looks up to, believes in and will follow wherever he leads!” Explosive anger so foreign to Ebbely’s character—it now silenced those who heard it.
John’s continuing silence making him nervous, Fritz repeated, “Terrible! Mein Gott! Hannah! Hannah mustn’t know! All of you—you all have to promise me not a word! Maybe Zoltan’s right, maybe this is only one time and next paper nothing.”
The next edition of the Ford International Weekly and the Dearborn Independent had much more and the next and the next. In all, ninety-one articles of such vitriol, such extreme anti-Semitism that years later when these were published in book form under the title The International Jew, financed and distributed worldwide by Henry Ford, Adolf Hitler already enamored of the assembly line concept which he used in the rearmament of Germany, hung a portrait of Heinrich Ford in his office and saluted it.
20
The Nineteenth Amendment granting women the vote now law, Jane conscious of her civic duty as well as the heroic struggle waged to secure this right, approached John for some political insight. As usual when alone they spoke Italian.
“Now that women have been given the right to vote—does that mean I shall be allowed to do so?”
“Of course. That is if you want to.” John, concentrating on his evening paper, replied without lifting his eyes.
“A right so long fought for should be honored. Don’t you think?” Jane threaded her darning needle.
“Uh-huh.” Turning a page John added, “Do you think you know enough to vote?”
“Oh I intend to study—to inform myself on all the issues presented by … what are they called?”
“Candidates.”
“Please also tell me the names of the what is called the parties.”
Rather amused by his wife’s earnestness concerning political matters that were surely quite over her head—John put down his paper smiling. “Well, first and foremost there is the Democratic Party. Then the Republican. Those two being the most powerful, rule. But as this is a democracy, other parties exist and are permitted. There is the Socialist, the Reform, the Federalists, the Whigs and others—but of course, if you vote, you will vote Democratic.”
“Why?” Though an innocent question—it seemed to annoy him.
“Why? Because they are the only ones who know what they are doing and the Boss expects us to.”
“Oh, Mr. Ford approves of the Democrats?”
“Mr. Ford is a Democrat.”
“President Wilson is one too. But now Mr. James Cox is running, why?”
“Some say Woodrow Wilson is a sick man—his obsession for the formation of a body of many nations collective to ensure peace for all time is doomed and so is he. Some think his playing God has gotten out of hand anyway.”
“Does that mean that the Republican Party might win?”
John shrugged, “I am afraid so,” and went back to reading his paper.
Picking up her mending Jane murmured, “Oh, dear, Mr. Ford won’t like that at all.”
Hannah and Jane took the privileges of their new citizenship very seriously—they pored over newspapers, on their daily excursions to tradespeople questioned whomever they encountered. Discussed amongst themselves whom they liked—whom they didn’t and why. For some reason both were partial to the Democrats’ choice for vice president. Though Hannah thought him to be a trifle young for such a lofty office she liked Franklin D. Roosevelt’s looks—because they were so aristocratic—“Just like a real prince from the old country,” Hannah said. Jane thought so too—adding, “An intelligent prince” and wished he was running for president instead of the so less interesting Mr. Cox. Both had no trouble at all dismissing Warren Harding and Calvin Coolidge and their Republican platform of America First.
It was on a bright summer morning that Ebbely announced that before the year ended he would be leaving to prepare for a new profession—that of musical entertainer for hire available for nuptials, births, funerals, and other such frivolous occasions. As this latest endeavor necessitated forceful advertising, to accommodate the limited space for this purpose on sandwich boards he decided to drop Hardt, Bein, and Isadore from his given name leaving a simple, straightforward, no-nonsense Ebb Fish—“that’s with two b’s as in tide” in its place. Well, how does that strike you?”
No one knew what to say. Ominously calm Hannah inquired, “So … your good name no good no more?”
“There are reasons, my dear.”
“Reasons? What reasons?”
Fritz jumped in. “You have a date to leave?”
“It has to be before the winter sets in and makes the roads impassable.”
“Reasons—what reasons?” Hannah persisted, tone glacial.
“Now, my dear, is not the time to go into them. Trust me.”
“Oh, I trust you. I tink you have gone crazy in de head, dat you running away will solve notting—dat you, a once-upon-a-time so smart, educated, by-everybody-envied gentleman, are all of a sudden a crazy meshugah, but … I trust you.”
Jumping up Ebbely hugged her. “Dear Colossus of my tiny heart, how I shall miss you!”
Looking down at where he knelt by her chair, the object of his adoration retorted, “Aha! If already you know dat much … stay!”
Fritz cleared his throat. “Ebberhardt?”
“Yes, my friend?”
“You are—sure?”
“Yes, I am sure. There are changes in the winds and I must follow where they blow. It is in my nature to be facile you know.”
John lit a cheroot. “Whenever you get this theatrical, Ebbely, I know you are hiding something.” John’s remark surprised Jane. She had not been aware that he knew Ebbely that well or had ever taken the time to discover his so carefully hidden vulnerabilities.
“I am not! John, I assure you, I am not!” Turning to Mr. Henry, now a rosy-cheeked mailman of expanded girth, Ebbely inquired, “Well, my boy, have you made up your mind yet?”
Spinning around, Hannah focused on her Mr. Henry.
“What now?! Has he got you crazy too?”