Fritz tapped out his pipe. “Well, my friends, I go home to Hannah—let’s wait a little and see what the president decides.”
Woodrow Wilson determined to keep his reelection platform intact, chose to fight through diplomatic channels—reprimanded the Imperial German Empire for its unwarranted brutality against innocent neutral travelers, warning that should German U-boats try it again in the future, the United States would then have no choice but to consider the possibility of entering the war on the side of the Allies.
Their confidence in the man who had vowed to keep the nation out of war reaffirmed, most of America heaved a sigh of relief—went back to work profiting from a war, for now, removed from them. Only natural that public opinion would favor England, a country part of its heritage sharing a common language, after the Lusitania tragedy, the hatred of Germans and those nationalities supporting them began to surface. A slow-moving current of public emotion at first, it now gained momentum, that eventually would become a raging torrent. The first to feel its fledgling impact were the immigrant communities.
America, a nation having absorbed more than fourteen million immigrants on a global scale, now found itself a Declared Neutral, with a workforce mostly comprised of nationals stemming from countries locked in deadly conflict. Popular hatreds, their reasons lost amidst the ages, resurfaced, played into ever-ready bias and bigotry. Those of German origin found that by changing their names to more Anglo-Saxon forms, now not only aided their businesses but their acceptability as well. Schmidts became Smith, Herrmanns—Herman. Most, not finding an easy way to retain the root of their name, changed it altogether, others simply translated it. Schneiders became Taylors, Wassermanns—Waters, Muellers—Millers. Hungarians and others hailing from those areas of Europe where men were more swarthy, shaved off their identifying facial hair, achieved a more acceptable clean-cut image which, in turn, pleased Ford’s Sociological Department no end.
Whereas euphoric nationalism was the driving force behind Europe’s youth, eager to do glorious battle, nationalism within America’s immigrant communities was far more complex. Where did their loyalties lie? With their adopted homeland, the one that had welcomed, given them shelter? Or, as was true for many, the homeland they planned to return to with fortunes made? Or, should their loyalty first be to themselves, the struggle it had cost to realize a dream? Brave flag waving for old loyalties, though laudable, many had learned through hard experience that survival offered more lasting rewards than impulsive patriotism. Many did leave, later to die on some battlefield.
Most stayed, many torn by guilt yet more than ever determined to make America their new homeland. Those fortunate to have brought families over helped those who did not know what had happened or might happen to theirs. Everyone waited for news from across the sea.
During this time of political and personal turmoil, the thousands of immigrant workers on Henry Ford’s continuously moving assembly lines began to welcome the numbing effect of its repetitive, hypnotic monotony.
For John, having a family left behind, even in a country not yet at war, geographically still close enough to it, was cause for constant worry. Since the very beginning of hostilities, he had been writing, urging his family to leave Italy, join him in America. His parents’ refusal did not deter him from insisting that at least then his sisters should be persuaded to leave, come live with him and his family in Highland Park. Getting no concrete answer, he kept writing, hoping, until May 23, when Italy, having finally decided which side would be the most advantageous to join, entered the war.
“Ninnie! Damn! Damn! Now it’s too late! Those stupid fools! Thank God, at least Italy has chosen to throw in her lot with England and France. But now my hands are tied … I can’t do a damn thing to help! If it had been only Celestina, she would have come. She’s got spunk! But, Gina? She probably moaned and groaned about drowning at sea—too, too frightened of everything just like that stupid Camilla and, because of Gina, of course, Celestina stayed. Wait till I get my hands on those two. Stupid! Just stupid! Women! Thank God you’re not one!” And John stormed out of the house. Jane, closing the door behind him, wondered what exactly he had meant by that.
Just before his first birthday, Michael decided the time had come to explore life from an upright perspective and, slightly off kilter, under his own steam, walked out into the beckoning world and tumbled down the porch steps. He wasn’t hurt but his agonizing screams convinced Jane he must be. From then on, her life was hell. Quietly sewing—an impossibility. As a matter of fact, any activity that did not include her son—a preordained disaster. Whatever caught Michael’s fancy, he ran towards, oblivious to any and all obstacles that happened to be in the way. It was as though the little boy assumed things would step aside to accommodate him when seeing him coming towards them.
When tables, chairs, doors, walls bumped into him, he ricocheted off them, sat on the floor stunned, looking at the obstacle as though surprised at why it had refused to move out of the way. If Jane hadn’t been so harassed, she might have found her so determined son amusing but, for some reason, his unfettered freedom annoyed her. John, working on an idea of how to restrict Michael’s adventurous spirit, built a hinged four-sided fence around him. Hannah, on first seeing this pen, sniffed, “Your Michael—he is now a chicken?” But when she saw he didn’t seem to mind, had toys to occupy him within this private, safe domain, she began to accept it, saying that as John’s clever invention seemed to work, next year maybe, he should build one to hold Carl and Rosie’s twins.
Most early mornings, after John had left for work and before it was time to begin her daily duties, Jane stood on the front porch waiting for Mr. Henry to come down the street. It had been months now, since Teresa’s letter and, although she was sure a convent, even one situated in France, would not be desecrated by war, she worried, needed to have Teresa tell her that she was safe. Also, though she had answered both Bela’s and Eugenie’s letters, written Camilla and Antonia, even her father of the birth of a son and received no answers, Jane figured one of these mornings Mr. Henry, conscientious mailman that he was, would just have to stop at her house.