If Jane had been more cathartic she might have ruined it with guilt-ridden shame. As it was, she flung herself into the rapture of being shameless without regret. He never questioned, she never confessed. They loved each other and were in love. The age of noncommunicative exposure of self had its advantages. After all, there is nothing more stimulating to a mired relationship than a satisfactory sojourn outside of it. Like an electrical charge it jump-starts sagging sensibilities to once again be willing to appreciate what one already has. If there is love and if one doesn’t kill the effect by confession first or discussing it to death in order to clear one’s conscience or be magnanimously forgiven—everything’s fine. The children enjoyed it too. For them their mother was less strict—her criticism less frequent—a new leniency in her approach to mothering, and now most evenings their father came home in time for supper.
As this marriage meandered through the time mazes that filter emotions, theirs became a quiet love, one of those rare unions that had within its passions a peace; as though once born and believed, love so assured needed no further proofing. Rarely understood except perhaps by those in love with God, in whatever guise their surrender requires Him to be—such love once recognized, its utter truth accepted, exists—no further reconfirmation is necessary; it simply is. Possibly, the only force that can and does do battle with the planned forgetfulness of death and most often wins despite it.
It was in Constantinople that Billy too fell in love. It was one of those perfect loves of sighs from afar that valentines are made of. Even her name suited this pure, untouched, untarnished romance. The object of Billy’s first adoration was called Miss Peach and she was his teacher. This English schoolmarm must have been truly wonderful for he never forgot her—kept her close, as gently harbored when grown as when he was just a boy, daydreaming in class.
Young John, now referred to as John Jr., though still resentful at having to leave Italy, excelled in school—became a leader within those student groups that attracted boys with opinions judged radical by others.
Cricket and rugby were the sports everyone wanted to excel in. Some like Billy played excellent tennis hoping to someday captain the school team.
Appreciated and respected, John was happy in his work. Despite being involved with his duties in Turkey his talents and expertise were often solicited for the new assembly plant being erected for Ford of England, this one in Degenham. At times it seemed he was forever in a hurry to catch a train to somewhere.
When by decree Constantinople was renamed Istanbul no one who lived there took the slightest notice. Particularly the reigning British colony, who thought it an affront, blamed President Kemal and his young republic for trying to modernize a city that by its so glorious antiquity represented all that Turkey was, had been and should remain to the outside world. That image of being removed from the rest of the world was a pervasive norm in that part of the globe. Back in America the Great Depression was beginning its terrible journey—yet on the cusp of Asia Minor every day seemed to overflow with riches to be savored, enjoyed, held dear, remembered forever. If it hadn’t been for letters from home, no one would have been the wiser.
Zoltan wrote informing them that Henry Ford had stated publicly that hard times were a wholesome thing, a purge against the debauchery of the Jazz Age, then commanded his workers, who were now forced to work below the celebrated five-dollars-a-day standard—to go plant their own food on his four-thousand-acre farm.
… because of this royal decree and because everyone is frightened of losing their jobs some are actually doing just that. Secretly they call these plots shotgun gardens. Every day now we hear of another suicide and the Boss, he tells them to eat more vegetables! Of course with the unprecedented success of our new Model A, even our Lizzie didn’t have that at first, Ford is once again king of the open road and he knows it. We know it was Edsel who forced him to finally bring a new model to the marketplace but of course he will never be allowed the credit he so deserves. Times are really bad over here—newspapers are now called “Hoover Blankets” because so many homeless men use them as cover to keep from freezing to death.
In his letters, Carl too spoke mostly of what was happening—worried for the country as well as his continued employment with Ford he mentioned that the “Cork Towners, those Irish ruffians always such troublemakers” were forming unions and he suspected had placed informers in the Ford railroad yards because federal Prohibition agents were staging too many successful raids at the plant. He added that although no one knew for certain what had happened to Stan, he had heard from a reliable source, that he could have been among the victims of a shoot-out between rival bootleggers that had occurred in Chicago on Valentine’s Day, because the very next day, Serafina was seen wearing widow’s weeds accompanied by their son and most of her uncles, had left to return to Palermo.
Letters were the threads that connected Jane’s new home with the only one she called home. After hearing of Michael’s death, Ebbely had taken on the task of being amusing when writing Jane saving anything disturbing for those letters he addressed only to John. Sometimes, at breakfast when John was home, Jane enjoyed reading passages from Ebbely’s latest.
“John, listen to this … ‘Oh, dear, oh dear how the mighty have fallen! Our Lizzie—our goddess of the muck and mire—our heroine of the oh so common man—gone—abandoned—forever lost to progress, greed and ever pallid tomorrows …’” Jane laughed. “Isn’t Ebbely wonderful! I do so love his exaggerated use of language!”
“Still, there’s much hidden within that exaggeration.”
“You noticed?”
“Of course. I miss him.”
“So do I. Do you think he is really happy in his New Orleans?”
“Why do you ask? You think he isn’t?”
“It’s hard to explain—sometimes I think he sounds too happy, as if by trying to convince us he is hoping to convince himself. Do you ever feel that?”
“Often—that’s very astute of you, Ninnie.”
Basking in his approval, Jane poured John his morning coffee. “In his letters to you, John, does he ever say anything …”
“No—his life, that’s for you, for political and economic chaos, it’s me. He doesn’t like what is happening in Germany and neither do I—told me that Mussolini is a bigger gangster than a hundred Al Capones put together which I also agree with. Over the years I have learned that our Ebberhardt is right about everything and that I usually agree with him.” John finished his coffee. “Ninnie, they are having some timing problems in Cologne that I have been asked to check on—so I’ll be leaving for Germany by the end of the week. I shouldn’t be gone for too long.”
“Will you be needing your good blue suit?”
“Probably—you know the Germans—business discussions in restaurants over food is their specialty. Oh, and I’ll need those special shirts you made for me with the French cuffs—I find the Germans rate a man’s success by his cuff links. Have I got any worthy of them?”
“No, but Mrs. Cooper showed me the store that carries them.”
“The Coopers like you.”
“I’m glad—because I like them.”
John kissed her “I’ll be home for supper” and left.
In his first-class compartment on the Orient Express John read the letter from Fritz that had arrived just that morning.