Now during many evenings of their working week, the onetime boarders sought once more the Geiger parlor to discuss these disturbing times; seek comfort in old friendships.
Carl lit his pipe. “My Germans hate the French, the French hate them, my Russians hate the Germans, the Germans hate the Russians as well as every Pole. The Slovaks haven’t decided who to hate yet, and so it goes all the way down the line …”
“Yesterday, someone called me an Austrian bastard who started it all,” said Rudy, quite upset.
“Must have been a Serb,” Ebbely commented.
“I heard someone sang ‘Deutschland Uber Alles’ on the loading platform.” Stan looked around the room.
“Yes, and then others countered with ‘God Save the King,’ even the Rumanian anthem. We nearly had trouble out there,” Peter shook his head.
“Where is this all going to end?” asked Fritz.
“We certainly can’t allow any of it to interfere with production,” answered John.
Carl relit his pipe. “I agree. We have to calm the men down.”
Rudy turned to Johann. “Any trouble in your section? Anybody call you a name behind your back yet?”
“Little neutral Holland? I’m lily white—so is John, as long as Italy stays out.”
“Well, I was called a dirty Hun and I don’t like it! I’m American. I’ve got my first papers already.”
“Fritz,” John reached over to pat his shoulder, “don’t let this get under your skin.”
“Ja—we all have to ride this through. This war won’t last long anyway.”
Ebbely jumped down off his chair.
“If it is any consolation, my friends, remember that no matter what side they are on, everyone loathes the Serbs for starting this whole brew-ha!”
“Too convenient, Ebbely.”
The little man stopped from exiting, turned. “What is that in reference to, dear Zoltan?”
“The assassination was a convenience—only a convenience, to a war ready to happen.”
Ebbely saluted. “When Zoltan is right, he is irrefutable. I stand corrected. Oh, come on! Enough of this talk. I leave tomorrow to entice the fair magnolias of Southern pulchritude to encase their so soft femininity within the confines of my latest line of ephemeral corsetry. For this I need my thoughts to be pure, a pastoral landscape of idyllic symmetry. Speculations on human brutality tend to play havoc with necessary illusion. So I bid you all, adieu!”
“Ebbely!”
The little man halted, annoyed. “Now what?”
“WE LOVE YOU!” his friends chorused, laughing.
Bowing, Rumpelstiltskin acknowledged their affection, waved and went to bed.
To avoid the buildup of August heat, he left at dawn.
Hannah and Jane saw him off.
“Farewell! Dear tall ladies, farewell! I shall return, possibly addicted to hogs’ feet and grits. Who knows? All things are possible!” and was off to Georgia, the last bastion, as he put it, of true womanhood still more than willing to embrace whalebone and all such inhibiting restrictions laced tight against the invasion of their so useful repetitive virginity. Honking the horn of his shining Lizzie, Ebberhardt Isador Fishbein, salesman extraordinaire, wobbled off in style.
On a glorious late August morning, carrying their last-minute belongings, John and his wife walked to their new home, followed by Hannah carrying the baby, Fritz a jelly glass filled with sweet peas. Eager to get to work, John handed Jane the key, kissed her cheek, hugged Hannah and, calling to Fritz not to get held up, jumped on his bicycle and disappeared. Fritz shoved the jelly glass at Jane, kissed his wife and trotted after him.
“Couldn’t even make a little fuss? Say something nice, like mazel tov? Carry you maybe across de threshold?”
“Carry me? Where?” Jane asked, confused.
“A man supposed to carry de bride into dere first home. Only right!”
Jane laughed, “What a silly idea. Anyway, I don’t think John could!”
“What you mean? Your John, he’s built like Gentleman Jim Prize Fighter—lick anybody!” Hannah shifted the baby to her other shoulder.
“Oh, I just meant with my size, how silly that would look. Here, give him to me, you open the door.” Jane handed Hannah the key to her front door in exchange for her son.
“Not right, not right me doing dis. You, Ninnie—you are de mistress of dis house!” Hannah opened the front door of Jane’s new home and they entered, closing it behind them.
By the time John returned from work, his house was spotless, his son bathed, asleep, supper ready, his wife in fresh apron, tidy and welcoming, everything in apple pie order, Ford Motor Company Sociological Department perfect. If he was surprised, even pleased, he did not show it; after all, Giovanna had promised him such service long ago and now he had given her her own home to give it in. Their marriage was a stipulated contract, demanding acceptance of its conditions agreed upon, emotions only clouded issues best left aside. Fortunately, the new household functioned as though this was true, neither partner aware that there could or should be more; and so a pseudo happiness existed that, though it did not fulfill needs, served the interim of their gestation.
Without Hannah’s bustling presence, Jane’s house was mired in silence. The baby, being one of those creatures that seemed not yet aware it was outside the womb and should therefore be complaining of being robbed of its encompassing delight, was docile. As she fed her son on a strict schedule, whether he was hungry or not, even a baby’s outraged hunger cries did not disturb the silence of her house. Neither did the rattle and banging of pots and pans. Frenetic kitchen activity was not Jane. Except for the baking of pies, Jane rather disliked cooking, did not consider it an enchantment as Hannah did. Food was necessary nourishment, to be routinely administered, not an adventure with theatrical overtones. Sewing was as close as Jane got to a passion. Without a longed-for sewing machine, an activity in silence. If it had been knitting she loved, at least the click of needles might have filled the void of sound. At times she felt like a child playing house by herself, tidying her tidy parlor for the arrival of imaginary guests.