“You want us? Supper ready?” Fritz started to get up.
“No. A little time still. Just am wondering how long dis fancy story telling is going on.” Rumpelstiltskin, knowing she was still fuming that he had dared to enjoy someone else’s cooking, opted for silence. “Well, okay den—but make it fast.” Heaving an exasperated, put-upon sigh, Hannah returned to her kitchen.
“Where was I?”
“They found him dead … “
“Ah, yes. Well, it seems he had a married sister, lived somewhere near Oshkosh, she and her husband came down for the funeral, afterwards, happy as two squirrels cracking nuts, they take possession of the Model T and are about to drive out of town, when lo and behold, the local sheriff stops them, claims it as the primary evidence in the theft of a pair of silver candlesticks belonging to the church! So after the usual ruckus, the car was put up for sale to recoup the loss. I’m starved! Let’s eat!”
Moving into the dining room, Fritz still chuckling, asked, “Ebbely, how is Minnesota?”
“Oh, my God! First I must have sustenance before recounting you my experiences this winter. Have you ever had to live two endless months with nothing but snow and muscled women who walk like men? If not, you can have no concept of what that can do to a man. First—Hannah’s magnificent libation, then I’ll tell you—but let me warn you, it’s not a pretty picture!”
“Sounds a little like Poland.” Laughing, Carl took his seat.
Peter frowned, “We got pretty women!”
“Yeah, sure we have.”
“What about that Temple dancer?” Peter sounded like a little boy determined to prove his point. “She’s beautiful!”
“What Temple dancer? In Poland?” Zoltan sounded utterly confused.
Peter looked to Fritz for help.
“You know who I mean? Just a few years ago, she was the toast of Paris. Martha … something … if Dora was here, she would know.”
Johann, rounding the table to his place, burst out laughing.
“You mean MATA—not Martha—MATA HARI!”
“That’s her!” Peter beamed.
“She’s not a Pole, you fool—she’s a Hollander like me and her real name is Margaretha Zelle. I know, because my cousin was in school with her.”
“Well, I once saw a likeness and she’s beautiful!”
“But she ain’t Polish, Peter! Hey, Hannah, your Ebbely says he’s starving for your magnificence.”
She, carrying in a platter of succulent brisket of beef, framed by egg noodles, gave Ebbely a look.
“Well, when you arrive, I tink you look special—scrawny—like dey don’t feed you right—so? EAT!”
Having finished, Rumpelstiltskin sighed, leaned back in his chair.
“Now, my friends, while I digest, tell me what was all that hullabaloo about your Boss and his Ship of Peace? In the St. Paul papers, they printed some things he said at a meeting with the press that, begging your pardon, sounded as though he had gone and lost his marbles. Here …” He reached into his vest pocket. “… I cut it out just to show you.”
“Read it, Ebbely.”
“If you insist—but just the part that astounded me. Here, they quote Ford. Listen.
‘“Well, boys, I got the ship.”
“What ship, Mr. Ford?”
“Why, the Oskar II.”
“Well, what are you going to do with her?”
“We’re going to stop the war.”
“Going to stop the war?”
“Yes we’re going to get the boys out of the trenches by Christmas.”
“But how are you going to do it?”
“Oh, you’ll see.”
“Where are you going?”
“I don’t know.”
“What country will you head for?”
“I don’t know …”’
“and so forth and so on. You must admit …”
Carl mumbled, “Ford might seem ridiculous to the press but for the people, he’s still a hero. You should have been here when he got back! Detroit went wild, cheering him as Crusader.”
“Ja, Ebberhart, Carl is right. At least the Boss tried, even if it turned out no good—you can’t take that away from him.”
“Well, it’s more than Wilson is doing certainly,” Ebbely stirred his coffee.
“Stan thinks we’ll be drawn into it.”
“By ‘we’—I assume, Fritz, you mean the United States?”
“Of course, who else?”
Ebbely folded his napkin. “I happen to agree with Stan. But what troubles me is, when that day comes, what will be the country’s attitude towards those of German birth. What is the feeling at the plant? Still under control would you say, Fritz?”
“Sure. A little blowup here and there, sometimes when the news comes in and it is really bad—like the poison gas—they get into a fight but nothing really serious. Right, Carl?” Fritz looked over at his friend.
“Yes, we moved the French and Belgians away from the Germans, shifted the Turks, Austrian-Hungarians and a few Bulgarians and Latvians into their positions on the line—seems to be working. How are your Russians?”
“As long as we group them with Poles, Rumanians, Ukrainians, and Lithuanians, they’re okay,” Fritz answered.
“I’ve got a rim man, a Serb, who got beat up—and he’s on our side.”
“Peter, that’s because no one wants the Serbs, no matter whose side they’re on!”
“It sounds to me, my friends, as though you’ve got your own war map over there.” Ebbely finished his coffee.
“By the last count we have fifty-three nationalities speaking more than a hundred languages and dialects!”
“My God!”
“The end of this month, the Ford School will be graduating five hundred men who have received a sound education in reading, writing and speaking the English language,” John announced proudly.
“Well, that should help!”
“What do you mean, Ebbely?”
“I would think, John, that the more your raw immigrants learn, become a functioning part of their adopted country, the more assimilated they become, the more they will be willing to let go of old loyalties. All of you are prime examples of that.” No one spoke. “Do I detect a hint of guilt?”
“It’s easier for you, Ebbely. You’re a real American!”
“A real American? What’s a real American? Only a Redskin can make that claim, and I wouldn’t look good in feathers!”
“You know exactly what Zoltan meant.” Appreciating the attempt to lighten the mood, John smiled, yet pursued the thought. “You, as the only born American at this table have an identity. By birth you belong here. No one can take that away from you. It’s an inner certainty, an assurance of the future that none of us have—no matter how American we strive to be, we may become. But you? You, my friend, you ARE!”
“Let me get this straight. In principle, what you are saying John, is that you are but guests in a new homeland?”
“Yes.”
“Most of you have taken out your first papers for citizenship—what then? Won’t that make you real Americans?”
“No, that will make us proud, privileged Americans. Real ones, we can never be.”
“Ja, John is right.”
Zoltan put down his napkin, “I find he usually is, Fritz.”