“Jane, tell me. Have you ever been to a burial?”
Jane dried her hands, rolled down the sleeves of her dark dress, buttoning the cuffs.
“Once. My mother died. I was forced to go.”
“That could be it! How long ago was that?” Jane wished Serafina would stop.
“Nearly twenty years.”
“Much too long for a presence to remain so strong! So—it is still to come. Beware,” and Serafina strode out of the kitchen in search of her husband to take her home. Left alone at the sink Jane trembled; despite her resolve never to allow Serafina’s strangeness to affect her, it had.
Except for a heightened remoteness, Frederika seemed unaltered. Rudy aged but she remained the cool, superior creature she had always been, observing the world from her private parapet. Perhaps it was this very sameness that would eventually lead to her destruction, her so accustomed aloofness that had never allowed anyone to get too close to her, that now fooled everyone into believing she was alright, just being her usually composed self, so there was nothing special to worry about. Those isolated moments when the mask slipped, sometimes into irrational action, those were quickly explained away as just nerves, only natural after such bereavement; all she needed was time, for that healed all wounds. Innocent of what was happening to her, Frederika, suddenly unable to endure a husband’s touch, revolted by the very odor of his maleness, withdrew to avoid him. Slowly, their marriage became one of harbored silence, its outward face benign, its reality hopeless.
Attracted by Henry Ford’s fame, his monetary power, his repetitive ability to capture headlines and support for his pacifist views, Madame Rosika Schwimmer, an avid campaigner for peace, decided to make herself and her crusade known to the American hero who might be persuaded to offer much. Henry Ford, always putty in the hands of a strong, determined woman, quickly succumbed to Rosika’s firebrand oratory, her conviction so equal to his, that peace must be achieved, could be achieved through positive action taken by powerful, respected leaders—men like himself, willing to dedicate themselves and their fortunes to ending the war raging in Europe.
The Boss’s enthusiasm, bordering on infatuation with Madame Schwimmer and her peace crusade became the overriding topic in the Geiger parlor.
“Fritz, what do you think of this madness?”
“Now hold on, Carl!” John interrupted. “I wouldn’t call it madness to want peace.”
“Yes,” Peter nodded. “What was it the Boss said to the reporters in New York?”
“I got it right here.” Fritz read from the front page of his evening paper, “‘Men sitting around a table, not men dying in the trenches, will finally settle the difficulties.’”
“Well, that sure sounds good to me.”
“Okay—so they are all sincere, but you can’t tell me that gypsy is just in this for bringing peace to the world!” Stan scoffed.
“Well Stan, it takes one to know one.” Zoltan smiled, taking the sting out of the remark.
“You’re damn right it does! That Hungarian Jewess is out for all she can get and it ain’t just Holy Peace! Ford is being hoodwinked, good and proper!”
“Take it easy, you two,” Johann intervened. “You can’t deny that ever since the war started, Henry Ford has been talking out for peace. Now maybe he’ll get a chance to really do something about it! It’s time something was done … it’s becoming a slaughterhouse over there!”
“What happens if the president won’t do what the Boss says?” Peter looked to Fritz for an answer.
“The president won’t turn down Henry Ford!” Zoltan lit a cheroot.
“Not a bad question though. What if he does—what then?”
“What do you think—then the Boss will do it on his own! You know him—once he makes up his mind …”
Stan interrupted, before John could go into one of his frequent speeches. “I agree! And with that Schwimmer woman, he’ll have no choice but to. She’ll make sure of that.”
“They say the Austrians killed thousands of Poles advancing through Galicia. Carl, can that be true?”
“Peter, who knows? Every day I hear numbers no one can believe.”
“Carl, you heard from your family in Lublin?”
“No. You?”
“No. Nothing.” Peter sighed.
“Your parents, didn’t they move in with your sister-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, don’t worry that far north they’ll be safe.”
“Carl, you think anywhere’s safe anymore? It looks like it’s becoming a world war … the Turks are in it, the—” Fritz was interrupted by Johann.
“On whose side? There’s so many I forget whose side they’re all on.”
“The Turks?”
“Yes.”
“On the side of the Germans, of course.”
Johann shook his head. “I should have known, they’ve always been a bloodthirsty lot.”
“I heard the czar is taking personal command of his Imperial armies. What do your Russians say to that, Fritz?”
“They’re proud, Zoltan. Very proud.”
“That Romanov tyrant will sit on his steed, decked out in jeweled orders to lead his starving serfs into battle to die for dear old Mother Russia.” Stan lit a cigarette.
“Well, at least they are on our side. Is that sinister monk still wielding power?” Zoltan looked at Fritz.
“How would I know?”
“Well, as you are our Russian authority …”
“Lay off! Tell me, do any of you ever feel strange? What I mean, embarrassed that we are living here—while …”
“While back home they are drowning in their own blood?”
“That’s a bit macabre, Carl.” Zoltan blew his nose.
“No, it’s not. If what we hear is true, it’s worse!”
“Well?” Fritz looked at his friends. “No one going to answer me?”
“I do. All the time,” Johann admitted. “But it’s tougher on you, Fritz, because you’re German. If Rudy were here, he’d probably tell you, as an Austrian, he too feels like the enemy.”
“Fritz doesn’t mean taking sides. He means all of us from over there, living over here, safe and sound, no one’s life in danger, he sometimes feels ashamed.”
“That’s right, John. That’s what I meant!”
“Sure, I do.”
“Me too.”
“Of course. But I try not to think of it. You can’t allow yourself to—or your output suffers.”
“Yeah, the morale of the men on the line is bad enough without their superintendents having a conscience.”
Carl lit his pipe. “John, have you received any news from home?”
“Not a word. Everybody blames the U-boats why nothing gets through.”
“Anybody know if it’s true that the British used poison gas at Loos?” Johann looked about the room.
“I heard that, too—and that the Germans are now using a new one, even more lethal than their first.”
“My God! Where is all this going to end?” Slumped in his chair, Fritz shook his head.
“We’re going to be dragged into it! You mark my words—I said it before—it’s got to come to that. We have no choice.” Stan crushed out his cigarette.
“Not if we get peace before it’s too late!”
“That’s exactly what the Boss is trying to do!”
“More power to him!”