Sensing John was about to storm out of the room Jane fled.
The chestnuts were coming into their special season when John returned from England this time with news that they would be moving to the far-off city of Trieste that overlooked the Adriatic Sea.
“I found a nice house. It sits on a bluff—from the front door you can see the sea and there are climbing roses and a fence around the garden where Billy can play and John will be able to walk to school.”
To be mistress of her own house again—Jane would have happily gone to Timbuktu. Trunks were repacked—farewells said—and John prepared to shepherd his flock across Italy.
Trieste, that beauty queen serving many loyalties, conquered by many, belonging to none, having been a sought-after pawn of war had been returned to Italy in 1919 as war booty for having chosen to cast its lot with the winning side. Its Austro-Hungarian Empire past having imparted a certain sophistication, where one might expect a major seaport to be rough and ready, Trieste behaved as though its acclaimed position on the Adriatic was solely due to the imposing perfection of its coastline—the elegance of a harbor adorned by buildings reminiscent of Roman glory embellished by the Greeks. Just as Venice, its glorious cousin across the water, anything as mundane as trade seemed but a sideline to its existence.
Though small their little house was comfortable—in the summertime its shaded garden a perfumed pleasure. It seemed in no time at all—it felt like a home.
During these years like the sea below, Jane’s life seemed to take on the rhythm of the sea. Young John started school, then it was Billy’s turn to feel grown-up. Because their daily language was now Italian, Jane decreed that now their at-home language would be English. Billy was particularly pleased with that new rule. Through the kindness of Agnes and her talent for scrounging, Jane and the boys received a steady supply of books in English to read and be read to. Her librarian talents challenged by what would interest growing children as well as a homesick mother—some Edith Wharton arrived, a little O. Henry, Poe and London for the boys and Mark Twain for all of them. It was fortunate that she did for it would be many years before the boys would once again face American schooling and by then having been exposed to only English literature, without Zoltan’s Agnes, Jane’s son’s would not have known their own country’s masters.
Ebbely’s letters together with news snippets from Hannah and Agnes kept Jane from losing touch with America. What intrigued her often were the different perceptions—of three such opposites when writing giving their opinion on like subjects. Mentioning the recent publication of Henry Ford’s autobiography, Agnes referred to it as “not at all well written,” commented as to its lack of literary quality, while Ebbely concluded that “after the boycott of the Jewish Community of the carmaker’s Model T, probably someone in his public relations office had the bright idea to polish Ford’s somewhat tarnished image by refocusing the public on his rural beginnings and the hero of the common man.” A disenchanted Hannah simply ignored it as she now did the man she once had respected—even idolized.
Often in the evenings after supper John would share his letters with Jane—and she hers.
Peter’s were always centered on the latest improvements of the Model T, his unbridled enthusiasm of the latest, the balloon tire took up two whole pages that ended with the proud remark “of course our Lizzie is the only motor car in the whole wide world who has ’em!” Carl too mentioned such possible innovations as “wipers” that when it rained could wipe the windshield, an idea for a mirror for seeing to the rear, even a light that would indicate whenever their Tin Lizzie stopped. He wanted to know what conditions were like in Europe—how the building was going, how soon production could begin and what John thought of the men; while his wife informed Jane that Hudson’s Department Store had unfurled the biggest American flag ever made and that all of Detroit was agog.
Like Ebbely, Zoltan was mostly interested in the political climate—but even he could not resist a little bragging about the little machine they all loved so well … that to celebrate the fifteen millionth Model T built, a transcontinental publicity trip on the great Lincoln Highway was being organized with 15,000,000 emblazed on the side of Lizzie’s black body in thick white paint.
Having heard of Michael’s death, Rudy had written his deep sorrow then added the news that Ford was preparing to build aeroplanes including a Ford Airport to fly them from. The news of a five-day workweek everyone celebrated. The Prince of Wales had actually paid a royal visit to Highland Park and the Ford Company having bought out Leland Motors—was now in possession of their magnificent Lincoln, truly a car for the most uncommon man.
Despite the invigorating challenges and subsequent rewards of his new position, there were times when John felt he might have made the wrong choice by accepting Henry Ford’s promotion—then reminding himself that such a choice had actually never been offered him, he quickly schooled his budding frustration and got back to work.
Removed as they were from the daily political turmoil that was turning the rest of Italy into a Fascist dictatorship, for Jane these first years in Trieste held a certain benign unawareness until Billy was old enough for fourth grade and rebelled. Well, not actually rebelled but put up a mighty fine fight against the latest dictum—having to wear the regulation black shirt to school. The Roman salute—that he didn’t mind so much … it had a history and seemed brave—but the symbolic black shirt; that he hated. Of course it didn’t help his case that his brother wore anything even remotely connected with Fascism, with obvious pride and flourish.
At first Jane reprimanded her far too outspoken son—then tried to explain the rituals insisted upon by Mussolini, whom she secretly objected to.
“Billy, you know what a king is?”
“Of course, Mama, he’s the Big Boss, like Mr. Ford.”
Jane hesitated, wondering if she should tackle that misconception, then deciding that one could wait, went on, “Well, here in this country there is also a Big Boss, who wants everybody to do exactly what he says and gets very angry if they don’t.”
Interested, Billy asked, “And he is the one who wants scratchy black shirts?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, I suppose—it’s like soldiers. They always have to wear what others tell them they must.”
“If I wear my black shirt I’ll be a soldier?”
“No—no one can make you be a soldier—your black shirt will only make you look like one.”
“And then the Boss will not be angry?”
“And your teacher won’t get into trouble.”
“But it’s hot!” Billy stamped his foot.
“But it is now the law—and so you will obey,” countered his mother.
“Why? Why is it the law?”