My Dear Child,
I hope this finds you well despite lascivious gypsies and salivating wolves that have a tendency to circle innocent damsels lusting for their blood in the flickering light of lonely campfires in deep, dark forests. Composing this, I’ve frightened myself. Still do be careful—Rumanians, even those not of gypsy lineage are notorious scoundrels as everyone knows.
This is but a short epistle to inform you that all goes well with your so humble servant. I play, they applaud, I am paid, then partake of a succulent repast superbly prepared by my employer and then I am off to welcome Morpheus. A repetitive existence but one that having chosen it over all others, satisfies at least that part of me that craves attention. I herewith enclose my address in case you should wish to send me news from that far off continent where your husband transported you despite our wails of woe.
Remember me to those delightful sons. I am as ever your devoted friend,
Ebbely
Dear John,
Here all is as expected. Life is lived as though a beginning and an end are unnecessary. It takes a great deal of energy to live in the moment and so I am usually exhausted.
Our brave soldier postman having succumbed to the tall tales told of waiting wealth, took his bride and left to pan for gold amidst the rugged rocks of some heathen state out West. A one-armed prospector he was determined to be and nothing I could say could dissuade him. I really do not know how I shall ever explain this to dear Hannah—who will surely blame me for not doing my proper guardian duty by her sad lothario.
As for me, I now play the Spanish guitar with such skill that I even amaze myself and getting recompensed for enjoying myself, that astounds me even more.
By the way, thought you might like to know, the fair Evangeline has become a Mama. On the ninth of April she gave birth to a bouncing baby boy that the Flivver King simply dotes on. So much so, and so publicly that gossip abounds. They say he is so besotted Ford is in constant attendance at the Dahlinger spread, lavishes gifts upon the babe as though it were his very own. Even insisted the boy have the cradle he himself occupied. As you can readily imagine not only Detroit, the whole of Michigan is buzzing. Evangeline named the boy John—known far and wide as Johnny—a most interesting choice, wouldn’t you agree?
I am afraid that what we all feared, tried to hide was all for naught. Hannah read one of Ford’s venomous tirades and took to her bed. As I had instructed Fritz to telephone me if and when such a day came—he did and I spoke to her at length hoping to cushion not only her shock but her understandable fear. With a rejuvenated Ku Klux Klan marching to its racist drummer and Ford to his—I have the distinct feeling the time may not be too far off when the Geigers will perhaps make the once inconceivable decision and leave this country for their less prejudiced homeland.
What about this new prime minister in Italy? Isn’t he the one who led the fascist on their march on Rome? That’s a strange bedfellow for King Emmanuel. Over in Germany it seems no better but at least there that Austrian rabble-rouser is safely in jail. Here anything political happening in Europe is hidden on the back pages—if then. But how is it there? Do let me know, for it seems to me that the pot is beginning to simmer all over again despite a so recent war won.
You are missed dear John, you are sorely missed for many reasons.
As ever,
Ebbely
While in England having been made even more aware of the political situation developing within Italy on his return, John confronted his father in his study.
“Damnit! Why wasn’t I told?”
As she passed the closed door hearing John’s anger, Jane stopped to listen.
“Told? Told you what?” John’s father sounded equally annoyed.
“The riots! Last year you had riots—the Socialists, the Bolsheviks—right here in Torino—and a march on Rome by radicals calling themselves Fasci di Combattimento—and no one thinks of writing me about it? My God! What is the matter with this country? Are you all so used to political chaos that no one gives a damn anymore?”
“Don’t use that tone with me. I am still your father.”
“Well then if you insist, as a father it was your duty to warn me before I took my wife and children away from the safety of America.”
“Safety? You have Bolsheviks, you have Socialists. You have strikes.”
“Ah, but being a democracy we still choose our leaders.”
“So do we.”
“You may think you do—but achieving political power through organized violence, intimidation even murder can’t survive in a true democracy.”
“So now the country of your birth means nothing to you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I love Italy. If I didn’t I wouldn’t mind it going down the shit hole, the way it is.”
Looking for a match to light his cigarette, John’s father remarked, “You know, Giovanni, America has made you coarse.”
“Not coarse, Papa …” John offered him a light, “only honest. True democracies have a way of fostering that.”
“You do know that these Fascistas are now a recognized party and that their leader is our respected prime minister.”
“Oh, I know. Remember I am about to build an American factory—financed by an American company in a country run by Fascists who now demand that grown men no longer shake hands but salute each other as if they are playing at being Roman soldiers. How I’m going to train men to work a moving assembly line who every time a Fascista walks by have to raise an arm—is just one of the thousands of impossible problems that your—what do they call this Mussolini now?”
“Il Duce and don’t think you can just dismiss him. He says he will bring discipline and order—and even you will have to admit that this is what Italy needs now. We must clean house—become a united country for the good of the people.”
As though their discussion was at an end, John’s father put on his coat he had draped over the back of a chair.
“Through a revolution?”
“What? What are you talking about now?”
“Control, Papa. Control. Control is power and power is control—that’s what these Fascists are after. Make the Poplulari, the Catholics, perhaps even the Vatican dance to your tune and only your tune and what you have is ultimate power. I have seen it for myself and I know.”
“You are exaggerating as you have always done whenever you can’t get your way.”
“I thought coming back would be exciting. A positive challenge, a chance to demonstrate American excellence, renew confidence after a terrible war in the dependable abilities of an Italian labor force. But all I see is that besides the killing, the war achieved nothing. Nothing has changed—it’s still the same old, never-ending political shit!”
“I told you I won’t have this kind of language in my presence.”