Out she scooted. Back in what seemed seconds, with towel, soap, and a big fluffy sponge, patted the stunned girl’s cheek, saying, “Come, come—never mind daytime and you all dressed—undo! Now is good time. Nobody need special batroom!” And closing the door behind her with a last look, “Lock—mit de hook dere is,” hurried downstairs to perform more magic in her kitchen.
After Sunday supper that was again consumed as though no one had seen food for weeks, the men, as was their custom, moved to the small parlor, as Hannah put it, to digest. They settled themselves into a copious selection of overstuffed armchairs, elegantly upholstered in muted shades of maroon plush, each with its own small side table and padded footstool. Men who were on their feet for nine-hour stretches under highly intensified working conditions, welcomed such considerations so far beyond the usual boardinghouse benefits. Their gratitude, at times, was quite touching, their genuine affection for the one responsible for this added care, an automatic result. Home and homeland left far behind—striving to succeed—make a new life in a foreign land that promised so much yet gave only to those who could endure, lonely, often uncertain, fearing their ability might not suffice to carry them towards their longed-for goal, immigrants soaked up any kindness shown them like parched earth water. The Geiger boardinghouse run on the premise that everyone in it was Hannah’s child, could justly boast that, as she often remarked, “Empty bed? Ve never got!”
In the sufficient light provided, the men read their newspapers, smoked—some, legs stretched out, dozed. Factory talk gave way to contentment overlaid by a weariness that Sunday was nearly over and Monday loomed.
In the kitchen, the dishes were done, preparations made for very early morning breakfast, the dining table laid, the yeast starter for Hannah’s sweet rolls rested in its crock.
“Thank you, Vifey, you big help. No need, you know, but nice doing mit company dat smells so good from lavender. Now, little one, go up, get ready for to sleep. Tomorrow is anudder day. Don’t vorry. I tell boys good night for you and send husband up after,” giving Jane a fast peck on the cheek, Hannah shooed her out of the kitchen.
Slowly, Jane climbed the stairs to their room, a faint apprehension disturbed her. She wondered where it came from, what caused it, then shook it off, started to get ready for bed.
As methodically as her husband designed tools for Henry Ford, he made Jane his wife. Neither love nor discernable passion entered into the act, efficiency did. When it was over, she lay beneath him numbed by the experience, though not shocked by it. It had been too bereft of emotion to warrant any.
That she hadn’t liked it, that she knew. That she could tolerate it being done again, she also knew. After all, it was an expected consequence of marriage that had been spared her until now and, if this was all that was required, it would not disturb her existence overmuch. As John moved off her, Jane turned away from him and slept.
She woke to the sounds of her husband hurrying to leave the room. Not knowing what wifely duties were expected of her at the beginning of a working day, she used that excuse for herself to pretend sleep. The noises of hasty breakfasts filtered up from below, the commotion as men left for work.
Jumping out of bed, she inspected it. It was a small stain—she hadn’t bled much—it would be easy to wash out. Stripping the sheet off the bed, she bunched it, threw it down by the door, put on her flannel wrapper and, knowing the house was now empty of men, hurried on legs strangely unsteady, to the wondrous bathroom to wash. Later hoping she could pass as trim and proper, telltale sheet tucked under her arm, she descended the stairs in search of her landlady.
In the kitchen, pungent with the lingering perfume of fried bacon and warm cinnamon, she found Hannah putting away the breakfast dishes.
“Ach! Dere you are, Vifey!” A welcoming smile on her flushed face, her sharp eyes having seen the sheet the second Jane had entered. “First, coffee. Mit a fresh Schnecke made dis morning by me personal, here called a danish—why? Don’t ask! A riddle. Come, child, sit—give me—” She reached out for the bundle. Jane backed away, clung to her sheet. “Ach, so!” What was she to do with this skittish fawn that looked more like a self-sufficient stork? Poor frightened child, pretending so hard to be a grown woman. She, who had once too been this innocent—now remembered that long-lost time and when she looked at Jane clutching her sheet, her eyes showed a tenderness the girl had never seen nor experienced, not even with Teresa. Now like a magnet, it drew her to this woman’s side and into her arms. As though this was quite natural, an often-repeated gesture, not the least extraordinary, they stood holding each other—the barren woman and the motherless child. Both had come home—but didn’t know it just then.
Suddenly shy, Jane asked, “Where, please?”
Hannah gestured for her to follow, led her to the back porch, pointed to an enormous zinc washtub already filled with steaming water.
“Monday—vash day. I show you how ve do it—hard part boiling de vater, den carrying out already done! Now, we take Fels-Naptha bar one hand, sharp knife in udder and scrape. Make curly chips fall into tub. Are you vatching?” Jane nodded. “Now, mit hand, svoosh like dis, make pretty bubbles—see? For whites, like dis—take dis can, here … but careful! Sal-soda. Scoop out some, svoosh around some more … now, put sheet in—oh, give me already! No shame, child.” Throwing the sheet into the water, she pushed it down with a wooden paddle that resembled a broken-off oar. “Now, here ve have really American miracle, dis called ‘washboard.’ See—sturdy wood frame around glass—yes, true! It is glass, like little steps but not delicate—vatch—ve put in, steady inside tub and now … rub up and down—up and down, rub-a-dub-tub, come clean as a vistle, no one de viser—dat’s American saying. Someday I learn you German, too, yes?” Expertly, Hannah wrung the now clean sheet, threw it with a mighty “plop” into the second tub for rinsing. “Come, bring de basket dere—good time—much to do. Den I show you anudder miracle I got. Dis one is called a wringer. When you crank handle, it squeezes de vater all out—so big hard hand squeezing no more! Real modern American my house, no?”
“Oh, yes, Signora. It is full of wonder,” said Jane, truly impressed as she tipped the contents of the big wash basket into the tub. All morning they scrubbed, rinsed, wrung, lugging pails of water from the kitchen out to the back porch, taking turns with the miracles. Stretched, then hung sheets, pillowcases, tablecloths, napkins and shirts on long rows of clothesline that traversed the small back yard, helping themselves to the clothes-pegs that hung in a big cloth sack.
“Signora …”
Hannah held up a warning hand. “Little one, ve stop mit de stranger talk. Hannah, dat’s my name—so please use it. Yes?” Jane smiled her pleasure, nearly dropping the clothes-peg held between her lips.
“So?” asked Hannah, bending down to the wash basket.