“A T sure ain’t a Daimler.”
Startled by the first inferred criticism of Lizzie she had heard, Jane stared at Stan, her mending forgotten.
“What do you want, Stan? A handcrafted unique jewel, weighing a ton, that must sell for a fortune?”
“Stop the preaching, John. We all know the answer to that. But don’t tell me you never miss the days when we built an automobile with our hands.”
“Of course I do—but we haven’t got time for that now! Those times are gone! It’s a new world, Stan—and it’s Henry Ford who made it!”
“Looking back never good,” said Peter. “We lucky good work we got. Many don’t have any!”
“Before, when I said that something is going on, I meant something is happening—nothing to do with the new moving line. Something else …”
“What? Fritz, not again something new?”
“No Carl, I don’t think so—it’s a feeling I got that’s got me worried.”
Zoltan slowly folded his paper. “Fritz, what kind of a feeling is this ‘feeling’?”
“I just told you—I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t be worried!”
Zoltan’s eyes swept the parlor.
“In all the years I have known this man, never has he been wrong with ‘feelings.’ You who were there, remember? That day at the old Piquette plant? He shouted, ‘ACCIDENT’ so loud over the noise, they heard him but it’s too late, couldn’t stop the Latvian from falling through the hole in the roof? … but still, Fritz knew something—and what about the time when Stolz lost his eye from the hot metal chip—that morning Fritz also had a ‘feeling’!”
“Hey, don’t forget to tell us when you got it figured out! In the meantime, I’m taking me and my rabbit’s foot to bed.” Rudy waved good night.
Fritz looked up at the clock. Zoltan coughed, squirmed in his chair. Peter heaved his bulk from his and, saying good night, led the procession of men upstairs to bed.
Jane stayed to tidy up, filching a Detroit Free Press left behind, so she could once read news that was happening instead of long ago; besides, it was cold up in the attic—then hurried to the kitchen to help. Hannah, having set out her sweet roll dough for Sunday breakfast, was heating the pressing irons on the stove, getting them ready for the ironing of the week’s wash. She chose to do this grueling task on Saturday nights because, as she explained, nighttime was good for the doing of “quiet” work and, Saturday being the day before the only day in the week one could sleep a little longer and had no lunch boxes to prepare, it made sense.
As one of the heavy irons began to glow, wrapping a flannel around its handle, she lifted it off the stove—banging it down onto its trivet with such force, the table shook.
“Dat nosey Rudy! … Someday I get dat smarty Austrian good!”
Jane, trying not to laugh, unrolled the bundle of dampened shirts. “Hannah let me do the ironing.”
“No! Not good now for you to do long standing work. You a Mama long before your baby come out. Remember dat. You can help mit de beans. Sack of dem is on de porch. For cleaning and snapping you can sit. Peeling, like potatoes, also okay. So—maybe, while you expecting I make you my special vegetable girl, just like de fancy cooks in de fine houses got!”
Jane fetched the sack of string beans and, with bowl on lap, sack, pot by her chair, settled herself by the kitchen table. Hannah folded an expertly ironed shirt, adding it to the stack beginning to grow.
“Vifey—tomorrow night—right after dishes done, put away, you and me, we go up to sleep early. Reason for dis is dat dis Monday, washday gotta start even before de dawn comes. Dis week coming much work. Is time for de most special American day called Tanksgiving. Old custom from American beginning days, when Englishmen called Puritans … why I don’t know … got friendly mit de Indians because dey bring dem gifts to eat so de Palefaces shouldn’t starve in de bad wintertime. Dat’s how American peoples got to know about pumpkin and buttered corn … Oh! It’s vonderful … vait and see! Everybody eat till de buttons pop off! … Hearts, too dey want to burst out mit so much tanks in dem, Indians not scalped everybody—so now dis vonderful country is safe and hearty!”
Though slightly confused, Hannah’s infectious joy swept Jane along the preparing of a feast that even by Hannah’s generous culinary standard was to be astounding. The hunt for just the right turkey was an adventure in itself!
Like Moses arrived on the shores of the Red Sea, Hannah—in galoshes, long winter coat, muffler, and second-best hat, carrying her grandfather’s walking staff—stood surveying the seemingly endless sea of gobbling fowl, as though about to command it to part, make way for her choosing. Mr. Rabinowitz, Turkey Farmer, knowing her only too well, kept his sales pitch to himself.
Like a general choosing a volunteer for a dangerous mission she strode amongst the hysterical fowl until a proud tom, not too old, not too young, in his meaty prime caught her expert eye and his fate was sealed!
She agreed to pay the extra three cents to have him killed but not the five cents to have him plucked and dressed, saying, “What I pay for I keep. Feet good for soup, turkey feather dusters good for de spiderwebs!”
The long table, resplendent, decorated with Hannah’s best linen cloth, its wide border embroidered in a cross-stitch pattern and Mr. Tom, regal, lustrous, his crisp skin glistening mahogany like the chestnuts of his stuffing, yams bubbling beneath their crust of maple sugar, peas nestled against orange carrot wheels, Brussels sprouts, vinegared beets, piled high mashed potatoes dripping gravy, glassy cranberries steam popping their bright skins, pickled watermelon rind put up the summer before—around this bounty stood the men, resplendent in their vested suits, fresh shirts, high collars newly starched, sporting ties. Fritz took his wife’s hand … pulled her to stand by his side and spoke. “Today we think of those who have nothing—no freedom, no home, no work, no food, no one who cares—and we say, ‘Thank you.’ For here, in this house, in this country, we have.” Kissing Hannah’s hand clasped in his, Fritz lifted his eyes. “Amen! Mazel tov! … Now! We eat!”
Years later, far from home, whenever November was about to end, Jane’s memory of her first Thanksgiving would stir, making her long for America and Hannah.
6
“John,” Jane caught him in the hall as he was getting ready to leave. “Just a moment, please. I need to ask you something.” He was hurrying, folding one trouser leg ready for the bicycle clip.
“What?”
“Hannah keeps talking of gifts under a tree and I think she said—hose filled with something, hanging—I’m not sure where. Is that how Christmas is done in America?”
“Yes.”
“The Befana—she doesn’t bring them, here?”
John straightened up, reached for his overcoat.