Shortly after Rumpelstiltskin’s return, Hannah’s nephew arrived, having made the journey from his home in Germany in record time. Heinz-Hermann had the look of someone newly scrubbed with a very hard brush, then rubbed dry with a very coarse towel without needing to have it done to him. His skin a natural raw pink, bristle corncob-colored hair, his bluish eyes so light they resembled watered milk. Built like a tree trunk with as little agility, it seemed utterly impossible he could be related to Hannah.
“It’s de papa. He comes from Prussia—dat’s up in de north where all are so,” she would explain whenever her nephew’s appearance startled someone. Very resentful that he had been shipped off to a strange land when his country might need its young men to protect it from vile aggression from the decadent French, possibly even the arrogant English, Heinz-Hermann seethed, disguising his inner anger with outward servility. Rumpelstiltskin took an instant dislike to the young man who tried to please without selection, finding ever-new ways to ingratiate himself with everyone in the Geiger household. The unimpressionable little man presented an ongoing challenge to Heinz-Hermann’s talent to fawn. He polished his little shoes, offered to wash his flivver, even ran to fetch Ebbley’s evening paper for no recompense, but nothing deterred the traveling salesman from his original, almost instinctive aversion. What surprised Jane was that for once Hannah left this situation to simmer on its own, doing nothing to smooth it over as was her want.
With so many gone, in the evenings the parlor had an incomplete air, discussions few, mostly centered on giving explanatory answers to inquisitive questions asked by Heinz-Hermann from the hard chair he had chosen, saying that as he was employed as but a lowly sweeper on the machine shop floor, he should not rate one of the padded ones belonging to Ford men of higher station. Such servility usually made Zoltan sneeze, escape behind his paper, while Rumpelstiltskin gritted his teeth, already safely hidden behind his.
“Herr Fishbein,” Heinz-Hermann, his knowledge of English sufficient to address him as Mr., never did. All men were Herr, all women Frau. When a German word would do, its English equivalent, even when known, was ignored. It was as though the young man did this on purpose, for what reason no one could fathom, except that maybe irritating others gave him a certain pleasure.
John and Fritz took as little notice of Hannah’s relative as he made it possible to be. After all, he was still so young, surely he would grow out of this rather annoying phase of raw youth.
Suddenly, to have a presence that disturbed, permeate the comfort of her house, made Hannah irritable. Her nephew’s ever-ready verbal dislike of his mother, even more so. She now kneaded her bread dough with an angry hand, as though she was slapping him, instead of it. When Jane asked why the boy should feel so towards his mother, Hannah shrugged, explaining that perhaps he was only mimicking his father’s attitude. Being a Prussian with a Jewess for a wife had never seemed to please him; Hannah had often wondered why he had chosen to marry her sister in the first place.
“Strange man, dat butcher,” Hannah sighed, as though the subject was better left aside. “He has a good shop. Makes de sausages perfect, wit gentle touch so careful he is, den, come home and hit. My sister Anna never say a word about it, but I know. Once, he smash her Passover plate our mamma hand down to her. Now, she never do de feast no more.” Hannah shook her head as though to clear it of troubled memories. “Now, what you say—we make strawberry rhubarb pies for Sunday supper treat, get me cheerful! Okay?”
“Theophany!” cried Serafina as she stormed into the parlor, startling the men recuperating from their strawberry rhubarb pie consumption.
Always slightly embarrassed by his wife’s dramatic entrances and exits, having been interrupted while in deep discussion with John, Stan glowered. Unfazed, his bride strode over to him and, jet eyes blazing, intoned, “Stanislav Bartok! Do you comprehend? Theophany! God has spoken onto a chosen one—ME!”
“Congratulations,” murmured Zoltan from behind his paper.
Serafina whipped around in his direction. “Sarcasm? Was that sarcasm?”
“Stan, there is about to be a war, one that may eventually involve the nations of the world. I am trying to read the latest developments. Please, try to control this oracle!” Zoltan rustled his paper.
Serafina shrieked, “Control! I’ll give you control! But first, I will offer a warning … hear me, Doubter! Watch your feet! Your FEET! Zoltan! When they begin to bleed, remember … !”
“Serafina!” Stan had a way of speaking in measured monotone to his excitable wife that reminded one of a trainer gentling a wild horse. “Tell me what has excited you. But, do it quietly. After all, this is Hannah’s house and here we are guests. Even if the gods have chosen to do you the honor of speaking to you, let us remember our manners.”
John suppressed a laugh, his eyes warning the others to do the same. It had amused all of them to see the revolutionary within their group becoming the Fatherly Sage by virtue of having acquired an erupting volcano for a wife. Sensuous mouth pouting, fires momentarily banked, Serafina curled herself into Stan’s lap and, in a whisper that reached every corner of the room, an ever-astounding talent of hers, meowed, “Italy will remain undecided and next spring, we will have twins!”
“My God! She’s right!” Zoltan exclaimed.
“Which one?” Rumpelstiltskin asked innocently.
“Italy—I just read it!”
As no one thought they could take this further without laughter, forced silence descended on the parlor. Serafina, recovered from her visionary epiphany as though it had never occurred, rocked Jane’s baby, singing him songs in a dialect both savage and lyrical.
In anticipation of his mother’s arrival, Zoltan moved to accommodations in the city, assuring Hannah he would never absent himself from her Sunday suppers.
“Zoltan, you sure?” Hannah already missing him, asked anxiously.
“Hannah, here was my first home in America. I can never forget it, nor you. I will come. I promise.”
“And you bring your Mamma?”
“We’ll see. Perhaps.” Zoltan kissed her cheek and left. From the porch, Hannah watched until he disappeared, then reentered her house, closed its door, murmured, “Anudder gone,” and slowly walked back to her kitchen.
By the middle of August, war was a reality. Powerful countries had chosen their allies, mobilized their youth who marched off to do glorious battle, believing God was on their side alone, making their cause just, themselves invincible. Euphoric patriotism was the order of the day—gallant bravery its password. The men of the Ford Motor Company, which employed immigrants from more than twenty different nations, became involved if not in body, by emotional ties to their homeland and families left behind who now faced a time of war, while they secure, well paid and safe lived the good life far removed from strife. As on the battlefields, national loyalties within the plant formed sides. Disruption of friendships, trust, the camaraderie so lauded previously so obvious that had existed on shop floors, began to erode.