Who was it who said, “See Naples and die”? Die from sheer relief of having arrived? Or succumb to disappointment? This overly romanticized harbor reminded Jane of a Breugel lithograph she had seen at the library, its insane chaos generated by a crazed multitude utterly convinced they were sane, here overlaid and abetted by that Italian frenzy indigenous to a port city in the south. Jane had no time to see if her first impressions of Naples could be modified for John hustled family and baggage onto the first train headed north.
Rumania, that mysterious land of somber fables, superstition and roaming wolves, in reality—though dark and somewhat brooding—left such fears undisturbed, except for one’s exasperation at its lack of modernity. Its culture might be colorful at times even theatrically romanticized but for a woman fresh from industrial America with three children and a busy husband to care for Jane could happily have done without ancient trappings in exchange for a bathroom that worked, and a toilet that flushed. No longer a European, who immured in antiquity respected without reservation the old, Jane had become an American who once dissatisfied thought it only natural to fix whatever didn’t work, making it better. In future years she would always travel with her private supply of handy tools and toilet paper.
Children being adaptable if their basic foundation remains intact, the boys took Rumania in their stride. Though everything and everyone was strange to them they coped—or seemed to. At least the two youngest being of an age still judgeless were content. Michael who had the tendency to discipline his feelings in order to assuage the possible guilt felt by his elders, having learned to perfect this trait through coping with the deaths of his friends—used it—fooling his parents into believing that he was not overly homesick, which he was. If anyone had thought to ask him, penetrated that perfect shield of subterfuge that only children seem to have the ultimate talent for, Michael would have sobbed out his longing for Hannah, uncles, iceman, even shaggy Molly and Highland Park. Nearly eight is not a good age to feel deserted. Though no age ever fits imposed loneliness, after three and before ten can be the worst. With years left, time given to recuperate, such hurts can be erased. That Michael had used up all the time allotted him, no one could know.
Within weeks John knew his assigned task was hopeless. After such a devastating war it was still much too early to consider building a factory let alone find enough able-bodied men left alive to work it. Leaving his family behind until new decisions could be made, John left Bucharest to consult with the men in charge of Ford’s European operations in Manchester.
Jane was relieved to stay behind and wait. All the boys were just getting over heavy colds—Michael, his having settled in his chest, was still coughing, a winter crossing of the English Channel would certainly have been unwise.
She first thought it was the wind rattling the leaded windowpanes that must have awakened her, for she heard it as she woke. She felt uneasy.
“Mama …” The cry faint—its fear raw—Jane hurried down the corridor to the children’s room. His head lolling over the side of the bed, Michael vomited, began to cry.
“Shhh, Michelino, it’s alright—you can come into Mama’s bed.” Wrapping him in blankets carrying him close, she felt the raging heat from his body burn through into hers.
“My throat hurts,” he whimpered trying to be brave then gagging, buried his face against her. As though something was blocking his windpipe, Michael was having trouble breathing.
“Michelino, here, try to drink—even if just a few drops.” He tried—but it hurt too much. She sponged him down, changed him, lifted him to help his labored breathing—fought the consuming fever with the fury of mounting desperation.
He is too small to have to suffer like this. Like a frenzied bat, her thoughts flew about searching for direction. Could she leave him, run downstairs, wake somebody? No, they were the only tenants in this new apartment building—there was no one to wake—ask for help. A telephone! If only they had a telephone! She could call … but who? They had no friends yet, knew no one, they were still strangers in a foreign land. She didn’t even know the language.
Fighting for air, Michael began to thrash—she patted, kneaded his back—it seemed to help—it calmed him a little.
The American embassy! Yes! They would understand—know a doctor—they would help—but it’s the middle of the night—they are closed! Antonia! What did Antonia’s father say that time when one of Teresa’s sisters had the croup? Steam! Boil water for steam!
Jane ran to the small kitchen put pots of water on to boil then returned. Michael looked so small, so lost in that vast expanse of rumpled sheets. When she placed his head near the steam rising up from the pots on the floor—it helped him a little but only for a short while—as the night dragged on Michael’s struggle to breathe intensified.
I can’t leave him—maybe if I wrap him up and carry him outside to find somebody? No—it’s freezing! It’s winter, nobody is out, and where could I go? …
Against her Michael whimpered. Suddenly the sound of a horse’s hooves on cobblestone penetrated—running to the window she flung it open—called down to a coal merchant who was passing, “DOCTOR! Get Doctoré! I need Doctor! Help, please!”
Startled he looked up—touched his cap and switched his horse to go faster.
Thank God! Jane’s heart sang, Thank you, God! He understood! Now a doctor will come!
Taking Michael back into her arms she waited. She sang him songs of bluebell fields and golden sun where goats played their bells amongst mountain crags, rocked him, cleared the catarrh as best she could, kept him awake fearing that if he slept he might not wake. In that small room of impending tragedy, death hovered, watching her.
The night wore on—child and mother waited. He for an end, she for rescue. Sometime before dawn, Jane began to pray. Surely God would not forsake a child so much in need of him. A little boy so good—who possessed such magic all his own. Not wanting to prejudice her plea she begged forgiveness for her terrible sin of rejection, implored God to listen. Michael’s labored breath feathered.
Daylight and Death arrived together—Jane felt its irrevocable silence and knew her child was dead.
Slowly she released the small body from her arms—laid it back onto the bed. John should have kissed him good-bye—Michael would have liked that. As though the task that awaited her needed more time in order to perform it, she stood looking down—focusing on nothing. Then, she prepared him, washed him, combed his hair, arranged his limbs, wrapped fresh sheets around him to keep him warm, oblivious as to why this should be so important to her, drew the curtains against the day, lay down beside her shrouded child and wept.
The doctor signed the death certificate, wrote Diphtheria in the space provided—pronounced the living children free from harm, handed the address of a reliable undertaker who understood English to the mother whose calm demeanor he judged cold and definitely unaffected by a tragedy that would have destroyed a warm and loving one.