Dear John,
We are no longer needed—the Boss has forsaken us and Highland Park. That it should come to this—after all the years, after all we accomplished together is so unbelievable that I cannot believe it. Everywhere men, good, hardworking men, men we know, we trusted, who gave more than just good work, gave also their loyalty to Mr. Ford and his company—now are good listeners to the straw bosses who talk strikes, and only because they are hungry and afraid. Suddenly our Peter was let go—but nobody knows really why—but everyone thinks probably because here we will not be assembling anymore—just making parts, and it seems Highland Park men are not wanted at the Rouge. Who knows? Carl, Zoltan and me—we have talked a lot about the new orders and changes, and we think maybe we should go too before, you know, before it’s too late and maybe we lose our jobs too. Carl talks of taking his family—getting a job with Buick and moving to Flint. Zoltan, with Natasha still so young and Agnes again in the family way—says he has to hang on—he has no choice—and me? Well Hannah and me—after long talks and much pro and cons—we have decided to go back where we come from, maybe even safe. I have enough saved up to give my wife not maybe an American luxury life—but a nice comfortable one until I find good work again and the money we get for the house will help for the journey, and finding a small house with a garden maybe near her sister. So, dear friend, this is my news—sad and good together. Sad because a so special dream and a wonderful American life must be ended—good because as Hannah says, “you and your Jane and those beloved boys won’t be so far away anymore” and that is why Hannah cried not so very much after we decided. Of course I will let you know when all is arranged.
Your friend,
Fritz
On his return from Germany, John—tired and strangely angry—let off steam in the safety of his home.
“Ninnie, the world is going crazy! Back home bread lines and soup kitchens! Now wild inflation in Germany with the National Socialist German Workers’ Party thugs just waiting for the old Hindenburg to die, if they don’t assassinate him first so they can put their Adolf Hitler in his place—Italy is in the clutches of an egomaniac—in France they are building that subterranean Maginot line—and for what? Spain is ready for a civil war and there is famine again in Russia and you know what that means—and what do we do? We build plants in every one of those countries and are teaching them mechanized production at speeds no one even knew were possible before Ford! Right now he is in Germany on a goodwill inspection tour. You know what, Ninnie? I am beginning to think the Boss may be as mad as the rest of them!” Shocked by John’s sudden so uncharacteristic disloyalty, Jane remained silent though attentive. “It’s a cesspool everywhere I’ve been—Cologne, Berlin, Barcelona, Bordeaux, of course Cork is a disaster already—and now Fiat wants to coproduce Fords for Mussolini. Only England, Holland and Denmark, even Belgium, are sane and here …”
“I just heard from Mrs. Cooper that young Mr. Roosevelt—the one Hannah and I liked so much—he has been elected as our next new president—is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Would you have voted for him?”
“Yes. Let’s hope he can save us.”
“Save us?”
“Ninnie, there was a hunger march on Washington—thousands of men sleeping in cardboard boxes that are known as Hoovervilles! All over America men ready and able to do a good day’s work are starving! Hunger in America? Ninnie—in our America?—the land of prosperity and endless opportunity?—it is inconceivable! Where will it all end? Who is there to end it?”
“John, do you want to leave? Go home?”
“If I was alone I would—I’d take my chances—but—”
Jane interrupted him, “Even if Highland Park does close down Mr. Ford would never let you go—there is the Rouge—and I could help take in sewing and—”
“No, my work is here—besides, Mr. Cooper has been good to me—I would never let him down.” Jane took notice that this was the very first time John omitted Henry Ford’s name when referring to his duty to the company.
John lit a cigarette—its Turkish tobacco burned with a pervasive sweetness that Jane missed whenever he was away. “While I was gone did you receive a letter from Hannah?”
“No—why?”
“I had a letter from Fritz—I think you better read it—” He handed it to her. Sensing it must be something important Jane read it carefully—then taken aback, read it again. “Well, what do you think? Does it make any sense to you? No matter how terrible things are—leave America, leave Ford—for what? I told you everyone is going mad!”
“They are coming? They are really coming?”
“You read the letter.”
Quietly—as though she didn’t dare to say it out loud in case it might not come true, Jane said, “Hannah,” it sounded like a prayer.
John took her in his arms. “Yes, carissima—Hannah is coming.”
Shy at exposing her longing, Jane buried her face against him, grateful that he understood.
When Hannah’s letter arrived it was full of similar news—tinged with an overwhelming regret even a sense of defeat. Having been an enemy Hun during the war couldn’t compare with what had happened to her dearly held respect for Henry Ford. For so long he had been Hannah’s idolized benefactor that now that she knew he hated her by being a Jew, it was as though she doubted her own worth. Reading between the conscientiously executed lines, Jane knew it was this disenchantment that had made Hannah agree to leave, return to a home she had left so willingly when young.
… Fritz, he has promised me that after a little while if we get too lonely, miss our America too much, we will go back and try again. Maybe have another cozy boardinghouse somewhere nice. So if now this is just like a long visit to see again old friends, then the sadness of saying good-bye to our Michigan is not so bad.
Quick, I must tell you big news from here. First that nice Mr. Roosevelt we liked now is our new president and because he is—he has ordered no more Prohibition—so of course everybody is happy toasting him. And also because he is so smart all the poor people will have work again and food on the table and not be sad hobos anymore. Oh, and another thing—now we have a real station that beams (that is how they say it) speaking and music out into the air. The new Mrs. Polansky, two blocks over—she has a big beautiful radio in real wood with knobs and I heard out of it myself. What will they think of next?