“You know, I had forgotten about her—it’s been so long.” He smiled at the memory of that hook-nosed hag, riding her broomstick, that brought presents to Italian children long after Christmas day had passed.
“Well? Does she or doesn’t she?” Jane wanted to get it straight.
“In America, witches are only used for Halloween.” He pulled the flaps of his winter cap down over his ears. “I never could understand why anything so ugly and mean would bring presents! But then, most Italian customs so influenced by superstition and the Church don’t make much sense.” He wound his muffler around his neck, tucking in its end. “Stick with Hannah’s menorah and Jolly Saint Nick—that combination is much more fun!”
And he was off, racing down the street, bicycle wheels spinning, slipping on the ice.
Hannah, welcoming any excuse to make of life a festive occasion, took Hanukah, Saint Nicholas, and the birth of Christ and rolled them all into one glorious ecumenical celebration. As December’s darkening skies threatened snow and frost chalked barren trees, the Geiger boardinghouse glowed with joyous anticipation of the holiday season about to begin. Cookie cutters, mountains of them, were unearthed from their boxed lairs, little tin candle holders, their pincers ready for the branches of a pine, were checked, repaired; shepherds, kings, Madonna and Babe unwrapped, reglued, candles counted, all placed by the freshly polished brass Menorah—everything ready and waiting for their moment of individual glory.
Finally the time came for Hannah to make her biannual expedition into the city of Detroit for the essential spices she could not do without. This year taking Jane along, she announced her intentions one evening during supper. “Time for de spices special shopping at Mr. Hirt’s in de city. I will go dis Wednesday—and taking Vifey mit me. So, boys, you on your own!”
Fritz, Carl, John, and Zoltan—who had been through Hannah’s holiday frenzies more than once, knew what to do, what was expected of them. The others were instructed to just follow their leads, and take orders without squabbling. Breakfast would be served at 5:30, a half hour earlier than usual. Those who paid for a daily lunch pail would find theirs ready on the kitchen sideboard as they were used to, but the washing up, drying and tidying of the kitchen that morning would be the boarders’ responsibility, as the ladies needed this time to change into their proper city attire. Later, after their nine-hour shift was done, the men were cautioned not to waste any time getting home, for light housework awaited their attention, as well as the laying of the dinner table, the reheating of Hannah’s supper already prepared—everything to be ready in time for when the ladies of the house returned from their expedition.
Dressed in her store-bought American finery, Jane descended the stairs to find her husband staring up at her. For a moment, she faltered, wondered if he might now forbid her to journey to the city without him. Apprehensive, she pulled on her gloves, buttoning them at the wrist as she arrived to where he stood.
“Ninnie, you look grand!”
Jane held on to the banister, knees gone suddenly wobbly.
Hannah, her already imposing stature enhanced by a voluminous greatcoat, neck wrapped in a ferret’s fur, wearing a merry widow hat on which nestled a bluebird that had seen better days, strode into the hall, carrying an extra pair of galoshes.
“Here, put!” she said, handing them to Jane.
“Oh, Hannah—must I?”
“Yes,” answered John.
Jane sat on the bottom step, pulling on the ugly galoshes over her best shoes, thinking that now her whole exciting effect would be spoiled. Fritz came to bid them good-bye.
“You two enjoy yourselves. Hannachen, you have the money safe? Pickpockets in the city! Watch the money!”
“And watch out for the white slavers! They fancy tall women. More of ’em, so they fetch a bigger price!” Rudy and Stan doing dishes chorused from the kitchen.
“Don’t take any wooden nickels!” Peter and Carl, getting a jump on bed making, called down from the landing.
Zoltan, wearing one of Hannah’s aprons tied under his armpits, appeared in the hall. “Now, don’t you worry about a thing. I have taken charge so that your orders will be carried out to a T!” and waving his dishcloth in farewell, disappeared back into the kitchen.
“Go already! You’ll miss the tram! Here … take.” Fritz handed Hannah her basket.
Jimmy poked his head out from the parlor he was supposed to dust. “Hannah, I would advise you to take your umbrella—it looks like rain or maybe sleet.”
John handed it to her. “Be careful, the streets are icy.”
“Go!” Fritz pushed them out of the door, closing it quickly against the cold.
Heads down, clutching their hats, bent against the wind, the two women made their way to the Highland Park Inter-Urban Railway trolley stop, only a mile away on Woodward Avenue.
Hannah touched her shoulder, “Next stop us!”
By the time they arrived at the Market Square, it had begun to drizzle its wash of infinite colors muted by the milky grayness of winter light as though covered by a gossamer veil. Without sound or motion, the square would have been like a vast canvas depicting a market day painted by an artist whose eyesight was failing. But sound and motion there was, bringing it into vibrant life. Horses neighed, pushcarts rumbled, beneath long open roofed structures farmers shouted their wares, eulogizing their perfection. Ladies in sealskin coats and stylish hats fingered produce with gloved hands, followed by domestics carrying their baskets; others in shawls and head scarves, carrying protesting children, men in assorted headgear denoting their occupations, others bare-headed in long rubber aprons and gum boots amidst the high-pitched cackle, quack and hiss of penned chickens, ducks and geese. The ebb and flow of continuous sound, the sheer volume of bodies in continuous motion as people in concentrated hurry inspected, searched, evaluated, priced, haggled, moved on, decided, bought, sold, wrapped accompanied by the repetitive clink of coins, their metallic echo enhanced by the cold.
Opening her old umbrella, Hannah hurried across the square towards a large brick building, calling over her shoulder, “Come, Vifey. First we go to Hirt … open market after, maybe.”
With a longing backward glance at the pageantry she wanted to join, Jane followed, doubling her pace so as not to lose sight of Hannah’s bluebird in the milling crowd.