“You’re so right! I have a good mind to go over there and haul them out myself!”
“With German submarines now threatening Atlantic shipping, you can’t. Fortunately for your Missus—if you don’t mind my saying so.” Zoltan got up. “Sorry, I must leave. My mother … well, you know how it is. Carl, Mr. Haggarty, it was a splendid ceremony.”
Everyone agreed, went to thank Rosie and her mother, then collected their ladies and started home.
Having been impressed by Jane’s Easter attire, Frederika visited her the very next day. Never one suited to the routine of a conscientious wife patiently awaiting a husband’s return to give meaning to her day, she often walked over to Jane’s to rid herself of a few hours of boredom.
Having hung up Frederika’s hat and shawl, Jane preceded her down the hall to the kitchen.
“Come, I’m ironing—there’s fresh coffee on the stove.”
Knowing Frederika preferred conversing in her mother tongue, Jane spoke in German, welcoming the chance to practice.
Seeing that she was not going to be served, Frederika poured herself a cup, asking if there was cream.
“I’m sorry. I only have milk—it’s on the back porch.”
“I’ll take it black.” Frederika sat sipping her coffee, not enchanted by its bitterness.
Jane dampened a shirt. “How are you feeling? Yesterday I thought you looked a little pale, but that could have been just the reflection from your dress. That shade of green can do that, sometime.”
“Yes, I know, but it never has done it with me. My complexion has always been perfect … until now!”
“How many months before you’re due?”
“About five I think.” Frederika’s voice held little enthusiasm.
Not knowing what to say, Jane continued her ironing. Michael, distracted from unraveling a ball of twine, crawled over to examine the hem of Frederika’s skirt. She snatched it away from his possibly grubby fingers. He gave her a startled look, then unconcerned by her rejection, crawled back to the fascinating tangle of twine.
“Does this child ever cry?”
“Not very often. Why?”
“I hope ours won’t. I can’t abide screaming babies.” Frederika took another sip of coffee as though only good manners required her to. “The dress you wore yesterday—I thought was very attractive. May I inquire where you bought it?”
“I made it myself.”
“Really!”
“We could never afford for me to buy such an outfit.”
“Well, knowing from my mother, who only wears the very latest styles to be purchased in Vienna, how expensive high fashion can be, I believe you.” Frederika extracted a lace handkerchief from her reticule, blew her nose without making a sound. Fascinated, Jane wondered how she managed to do that.
“Jane, would you ever consider making me a dress?”
“If you like.”
“Of course, I should insist on supplying the material as well as paying you for your time and labor.”
“You have such a petite figure, so well proportioned, it wouldn’t take much time at all.”
“Of course, all this will have to wait until after my confinement. Now doing anything would be just a waste of time.”
Sighing, Frederika rose, gingerly stepping over Michael, put her cup in the sink. Jane folded John’s freshly ironed shirt.
“I could let out the waistband of some of your dresses in the meantime.”
“Yes, that would probably be convenient. Well, I should be going.”
Jane saw her to the door. Putting on her hat and gloves, Frederika thanked her for her hospitality, told her she could come over to her house to collect the clothes she would want to have altered, and left. Jane returned to her ironing not disturbed by Frederika’s blatant snobbery, for she was used to it by now.
Waiting for the iron to reheat, her thoughts took flight. If Frederika was in such need of a seamstress that she was willing to pay her, maybe there were others who required the same, would pay for her services. Then, with the money earned, solely hers, maybe she could someday buy herself one of Mr. Singer’s splendid sewing machines.
The very next day, Jane went to pick up her work from Frederika, came to an amiable arrangement concerning price and date of delivery and, with arms full of silken finery, raced home, eager to become a genuine needlewoman to distinctive ladies. She thought of putting a discreet sign announcing this in the front window, but knew that John would never allow such degrading proof of a wife accepting payment for what other women of class did only for pleasure or acceptable recreation, would shame his manhood. So she altered Frederika’s dresses as though doing a favor, put the cents earned inside her special shoebox, next to Teresa’s letter and said nothing.
April was nearly over when fire destroyed the great bridge that connected Detroit with beautiful Belle Isle. Hannah, already looking forward to their July Glory Day picnic like the year before, was terribly upset—just couldn’t believe it had happened!
“How in Himmel are we going to get dere witout dat bridge? Fritz, mit a boat, I won’t go! Everybody get seasick—so special picnic don’t mean a ting. What a tragedy! How could such a ting happen?”
For days, Detroit’s newspapers covered The Big Fire. No one spoke of anything else. For a short while, the war in Europe, gaining alarming momentum, took second place to a tragedy closer to home.
The sinking of the British luxury liner Lusitania by a German submarine with the loss of more than a thousand lives brought it back into stunned focus. With 128 American citizens among the dead, the country began to take the European conflict seriously enough to consider renouncing its neutrality and enter the war.
“Now we go to war!” Zoltan was so convinced he was already worried about whom he could get to look after his mother when he enlisted. Johann agreed, “I’m sure of it. Now we have no choice.”
“You? They won’t take you—you’re a married man with a family.”
John, who had brought his friends home to discuss the shocking news, nodded.
“None of us may be allowed to enlist.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“If we do go to war the skilled labor force of the country will be needed to produce the articles necessary to wage a war.”
“Are we ready for this?” Carl asked knowing the answer.
“No, I can’t think how. How can we be?” Fritz turned to his friend. “We make Ts, John … you think the Boss will convert to war machinery?”
“I’ve heard that on the battlefields the stench of rotting horse flesh is sometimes worse than that of the rotting corpses. So …”
Carl interrupted, “John, what are you getting at?”
“I think this war will end the use of horses and mules and what will take their place? Motorized transportation of course and Ford will lead the way.”