Today John was homesick. Italy—that malleable illusion when all else pales; he knew her for what she was, yet longed for her. She was so easy to love. Her generous beauty, her power to treat time as mere interruption—decadence without guile. The touch of ancient stone, the sudden stillness of an empty square, the light—that unrelenting light that forced all color to be true, shadowed sienna, empowered umber. The scent of rosemary growing wild—its pungent oil the bane of seductive witches. What was it really that he missed to such a degree as to feel a sudden disloyalty to the country of his choice? It confused John that he found no satisfactory answer to the question he asked of himself. It was not like him to accept loose ends. He found himself wondering if Jane would understand.
Protesting their complete and provable innocence which they had done both verbally and in print since their arrest and imprisonment without bail the year before, in July both Sacco and Vanzetti were judged guilty of premeditated murder and under heavy guard taken back to prison to await sentencing. International as well as national newspaper headlines predicted that these foreign anarchists would surely be given and deserved the electric chair. In Italy and France as crowds demonstrated against the guilty verdict, in America anti-immigrant feeling accelerated, especially against those of Italian origin. As John had intuitively felt, in the prevailing atmosphere of get rid of all foreigners this case of two immigrants could easily develop into a scapegoat trial. Though none of the Ford men actually believed that these men would ever be put to death—still they agreed with John that if ever this should be proven to be the case, not only would it be a travesty of American justice, it would do irreputable harm to both the nation and what America stood for in the eyes of the world.
When a letter finally arrived bearing a Louisiana postmark the call went out for everyone to come have their supper at the Geigers’ and attend the public reading of Ebbely’s news.
Knowing full well that Hannah would share his letter, with an audience in mind—he gave his already theatrical style added flourish.
Dearest Hannah and all such friends who having congregated to hear the latest from him who though gone amidst the bayous, yearns for sight of them,
Let it be known that one Ebb (remember as in tide) Fish safely arrived in New Orleans, first bedded down his valiant Tin Lizzie, then his most congenial traveling companion in a lodging house unmentionable here …
Hannah stopped Fritz reading long enough to exclaim she knew exactly what kind of a house and that Ebbely should be ashamed of himself—then allowed him to go on.
… Ah, the rapture, the softness of a real bed after so long an absence, sublime. Since then I have procured a domicile more suited to my needs. It comprises a small bedchamber, an even smaller sitting room with an adequate alcove for sparse cooking. Its pièce de résistance … a small Juliet-like balcony that looks down onto the quartier where most days peddlers roast pecans coated in raw sugar and dark molasses. Divine! Simply divine! That aroma must surely be the perfume of all the best goddesses on Mount Olympus.
Now to the latest news of our brave soldier, ex-postman. Yes, my dear Hannah, I have kept my promise—found him a nice girl. Be assured that when I say “nice”—I mean exactly what that simple word implies. Though not untouched—untarnished, with a pure heart and a happy disposition, she will make him a good wife—they are to be united as soon as I, their honored best man and organist, have Lohengrin’s “Bridal Chorus” set to memory.
As I predicted and anticipated, my sandwich boards have been most effective. Astoundingly generous requests for my services are an ongoing delight. Mostly piano for now—but soon I hope banjo, even the Spanish guitar for which I am taking instructions from a tempestuous lady, the fire in her blood when she strums is quite overwhelming.
Here, there is much heated—sometimes even inflamed resentment, with fisticuffs and such—discussions both pro and con of the Sacco and Vanzetti debacle. For some reason the French here are as incensed as the fewer Italians who have more reason to be.
Well, now that we have Mr. Harding at the helm of our national, lagging ship, let us hope for better times—although without the ethereal Mr. Wilson I am afraid it may simply become boring.
I must stop—my impetuous lady awaits her pupil. I send you all my deepest affection—born of memories cherished, held with reverence.
Ever your devoted,
Ebberhardt, Ebbely
And for Jane, Rumpelstiltskin—for I have always known her secret name for me.
Pulling her handkerchief from her apron pocket, Hannah blew her nose—Fritz handed on the letter for the others to reread.
Another autumn—another summer gone. Having said his annual good-bye to Molly, given her the last carrot, Billy wandered over to the Geiger house to drown his farewell sorrows in milk and Hannah’s sugar cookies. Soon it would be cold again—the long wait for snow and exciting holidays would begin. Now that Michael would be going to school, Billy felt threatened by the strange new world his favorite brother was about to embrace without him. Feeling deserted, Billy climbed into Hannah’s lap while she peeled the apples for a brown Betty.
When Michael came home, he marched into his mother’s kitchen to announce that in his opinion, school was “real Jim Dandy.”
“Where did you hear such language?”
“Oh, Mama, nobody speaks English good.”
“You mean well—nobody speaks English well.” Jane corrected her eldest, who thought it was safer and probably prudent to continue in their at-home language of Italian.
“All the boys in my class have accents because they haven’t been here very long—and the real American boys—they speak funny too. I wish Gregory wasn’t dead so he could go to school with me. Today I learned one plus one is two but two plus two is four and you know what? Cat starts with a c not with a k. Isn’t that interesting?” And Michael marched off to draw a Model T for homework.
Snakes were mended—windows corked, children bundled, coaxed to go play outside watch their breath turn to smoke, holiday baking begun. This year Fritz and Carl having joined a group of hunters who cut their own Christmas trees—brought home such a lovely spruce Hannah said it was so regal in its naked state decorating it might spoil it. But later she relented not to disappoint the children.
Proud that he was considered old enough to be given this enviable task, Billy placed the three kings into their correct procession, laid Jesus in his bed of straw. Showing off a little, he glanced over at Natasha in her cradle, to see if she was watching. Much too young to really be seeing anything but her own thumb, still Zoltan’s new daughter appeared attentive which satisfied Billy’s need to preen. The women brought in Hannah’s baking bounty, Michael, finally allowed to use matches, lit the candles, Fritz placed a new platter its grooves filled with many selections of Christmas music on the splendid Victrola, everyone sang—Zoltan and Agnes even danced. That this would be their last time together no one could know—Hannah sensed a loss, yet unable to find any reason why she should be troubled, pretended that she wasn’t.
Early in the morning of New Year’s Day, when Hannah’s telephone rang she nearly dropped the coffeepot. Ebbely had not forgotten to ring-a-ling.
“My dearest Lady, Happy New Year! Getting ready to trip the light fantastic?”
“Oh, Ebbely, please speak plain English—dis costs.”
“I was.”
“No, dat was your special I am so perfect show-off talk!”