“Mama, I am going.” They spoke Italian when they were friends but this he said in English, for he expected his mother to disapprove. When she didn’t, they discussed his travel plans but in French because as Jane so rightly pointed out he might be in need of it and though he spoke it fluently, needed a little practice. German she never spoke—that language belonged to Hannah.
What Billy finally saw, what he thought, even what he might have discovered, learned from his sad pilgrimage was never voiced. Like those, years later, who knew Hell and could not speak of it, describe it to the uninitiated, could be a possible reason. In later life those who knew and loved him, needed to live with the terrible scars this journey left.
Still in Italy and out of money, when European war was declared in September, Billy sold his American shoes for train fare, escaped to Paris and barefoot sought sanctuary in the American embassy—and as a born citizen stranded in wartime Europe, was given passage home.
As war was once again dismembering the old world, the new hugged its treasured remoteness closer hoping it would not be called upon to again spill its blood for distant strangers. That this hope would be obliterated on a beautiful sunny morning just twenty-three months later—no one could know.
Escalating strikes and slowdowns, riots, and clandestine brutality began to turn Detroit into its own battleground. On the gates of the mighty Rouge, a giant swastika was erected, placards proclaimed unionism not fascism, fordism is fascism. The Ford Service Department comprised three thousand men, that the New York Times declared was the “largest privately run Secret Service force in the world.”
Billy continued his youth, John Jr. married and forsook his. Having lost their candy shop during the Depression, Celestina and her Josef now worked for the man who had bought it. Agnes presented Zoltan with a son they named Fritz. Rudy became a tester at Ford’s aircraft plant, remarried and closed his wounds. With his wife’s approval, Peter became a unionist, joined the UAW, Carl having found work with Chrysler moved his family back to Detroit. His generous loan repaid, in a moment of wild abandon Ebbely bought a small hotel off Bourbon Street where most evenings in its corner lounge he entertained his guests with such soulful renditions of the blues that soon all of New Orleans knew of him—some even going so far as to insist that if the great Mississippi bluesman, T-Model Ford, heard him—he too would agree that their Ebb Fish was grand. Before Holland was lost everyone received news from Johann and Henrietta telling them they had become joyous grandparents.
Early 1941 Billy volunteered for military service and by the spring of 1942 with America at war, was home on leave before being shipped overseas.
Jane, not knowing how to say good-bye, fussed.
“A disgrace to send fine American boys to win the war in such sloppy workmanship!” She settled the shoulders of his uniform, smoothed a buckling lapel, murmured, “I wish we had more time, I could take the whole thing apart and fix it right.”
“Yes, Mama, you and your magic needle that never rests.” Billy laughed.
“We kept this house like I promised Papa.”
“Yes, I know, Mama.” He had heard these exact words so often it had become a family saying.
“Billy …”
“Yes?”
“If they send you over to Europe …”
“Mama, you know I …”
“Oh, I know, but if—if—it’s that side will you try to look?”
“Mama, in the middle of a war?”
“I know—but … please, please try … Now, you have the sandwiches for the train? And the apple?”
“Yes, Mama—” Even in English, the way he gave it an Italian inflection always reminded her of John. He was so like him. Knowing she couldn’t keep him much longer, she rechecked the sergeant’s stripes she had sewn on his sleeve.
“You know how to put these on when you get promoted?”
“Mama, who taught me to sew?”
“Me!” Jane smiled, “I forgot. With all you know you will make a fine husband some …” Her voice caught at the possibility he might never be one. “Billy …”
“Yes?”
“You will be careful?”
“I promise.”
“No—don’t promise—I have a fear of promises—and no good-bye—I don’t like that either.”
“Well, will arrivederci do, or au revoir?”
“Yes—” Not knowing if he wanted to be kissed, she stood looking at him, uncertain. For a moment he held her—then walked out the door.
Most Dear Teresa,
Today my youngest left for war. Here—one hangs a red star in the front window to announce it to the neighbors. The color of the star changes to gold when they are killed.
I had a sudden urge to acquire a picture of St. Anthony, slip it into the pocket of his uniform, but then thought better of it. It seemed somehow blasphemous to ask protection out of sudden need when having shunned all forms of belief for so long.
I only tell you of this because I tell you everything—even those thoughts I am later ashamed of having thought you hear. If you were a priest—I think I might even be willing to go to Confession. How I ramble on—forgive me, I must be lonely—the house seems empty—so still—memories have room to invade. A lifetime of so much and yet so little to show that it was worth the living of it. Sometimes I see me—as I was in the shade of our tree—all youthful dissatisfaction, welcoming escape at any price and wonder was it worth it? And each time I am forced to admit even to myself—that yes—it really was after all, all of it. That lifts my spirits no matter how far they have fallen and allows me to start up my sewing machine with renewed determination.
It seems that all my life I have been searching for what exactly, I do not know … and so should it ever come my way how would I recognize it—not knowing. There is a persistent fear that it might actually have come, but then left because of my lack of trust in its existence. I who was so certain that freedom was one of place—now think that perhaps I have been wrong and it is simply one of self.
Even now I seek a comforting embrace in which to lose my reality. Perhaps someday if war does not destroy all future—I will bring Michael’s ashes to let them lie with John or perhaps someone else will mingle mine with his—leaving John his own peace. Still time has a way of nullifying energy—until even dreams can no longer survive.
Forgive me, I am tired and therefore foolish.
I wonder if this letter will ever reach your cloistered world—they may have moved you to a safer place. I wish I could be certain that you are safe and war will not touch—reach you—that is I mean only the physical part of you—your soul I know has always been in safe regard. Pray for Billy—you have the right that I forfeited.
Know that I love you and love does not become me as I wish it would. All you have taught me—I remember and I try. Will our chestnut tree survive this war as well? I wonder.