Overcome by a sudden urge to be girlish, Mr. Henry’s aging sister knitted him new mittens in alternating rows of Holly Red and Snow White to complement the Yuletide season. She had planned to add a tiny elfin bell to the tip of each thumb, but there the mailman had put his foot down, threatening to not wear them at all. Two days before Christmas, with paws resembling peppermint sticks, Mr. Henry handed Hannah a letter that had made the perilous journey across the sea, all the way from England. Knowing how fond her son had been of his American landlady, Jimmy Weatherby’s mother had written her of his death, enclosing a small photograph of him in his uniform, as a keepsake. Hannah placed it by the three kings and cried.
Nearly everyone received Christmas mail from home. From Poland, a letter from his father informed Peter of the death of a brother, the gassing of another. Carl’s mother wrote, telling him his youngest brother, a mere boy of nineteen, had lost a leg, his father fighting on the eastern front was reported missing in action. From Flanders, Rosie’s family received a conciliatory letter from the commanding officer of the Irish Fusiliers, assuring them their son had died a brave soldier’s death for King and Country. Out of Rumania, now in German hands, Stan got news that his village had been razed to the ground, his parents fled, no one knew where. From Bavaria Fritz received a postal card from Hannah’s brother-in-law, the butcher, decorated with grinning gnomes, dancing around a Christmas tree on which was written, in bold German script, “WE ARE VICTORIOUS,” with his signature beneath, under which Hannah’s sister Anna had added, “Where is my Heinz-Hermann? What have you done with him?” No mail had come through from Italy or Bulgaria.
When it was time and Fritz had lit all the candles on the little tree, they tried to resurrect the joy that once had been and failed. Christmas at the Geigers’ had come and was gone.
All morning Hannah waited for Ebbely to appear until Fritz had enough and announced that if she didn’t come immediately he was going skating without her. The first day of the New Year had dawned so clear and crisp, by the time they got to the pond it was full of people enjoying themselves. Still a little dejected, Hannah was lacing up her skates when from above her bent head came a soft whisper. “Well? Do you always keep your partners waiting?”
And there bundled in many scarves, one tied under his chin holding down his derby, stood Rumpelstiltskin bowing low before her.
“You are here! Ach, Ebbely! I was watching and waiting at de house!”
“Did I not promise? Happy New Year, Fritz! May I borrow your lady?”
Fritz grinned, “Happy New Year, Ebberhardt—you should have seen her—all morning she’s been glued to the window looking for you … drove me crazy. Take her for God’s sake—she’s all yours!”
Hannah gave her husband a look, put her gloved hand into Ebbely’s and off they swept.
Later, cheeks red, exhilarated, the dampening mood of Christmas dissipated by the lovely day, they all met back at the Geigers’ for mulled cider and Ebbely in concert.
And how he played! The piano jumped, he jumped, the whole parlor seemed to syncopate as his little fingers tickled the ivories—coaxing, cajoling vibrant infectious rhythms. Those lessons that had kept him in New Orleans for so long had surely been worth the time.
Quite overcome by his virtuoso efforts, the little man mopped his brow. “Well, my friends … that’s jazz! Capital J, capital A and a Z-Z-Zee! How do you like it?”
Carl scratched his head, “Well, Strauss it ain’t.”
“You want Strauss? I’ll show you Strauss as a Southern Black—listen …”
And Ebbely launched into an intricate improvisation built upon the Blue Danube Waltz. If those in the parlor had actually understood what it was he was doing, they would have known how really superb their Ebbely was. Michael was so taken by the beat, he started to dance—stomping his feet, gyrating his little body—Ebbely was delighted.
“John, you’ve got yourself a real pigganinnie there—just like the ones that perform on the streets of New Orleans. Next time I go, I may kidnap your heir—show him off at a revival meeting. Next I’m planning to learn the banjo. As a matter of fact, I am seriously considering giving up unmentionables altogether.”
Hannah was so relieved that jazz was only a strange noise that passed for music and not the name of a conniving, predatory Juicy Lucy who was out to ravish her Ebbely, she didn’t care what he wanted to do.
While they drank their spicy cider, Ebbely entertained, finishing with such a thunderous rendition of “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” they worried he might do himself an injury. Delighted by their applause, he swung around on his stool.
“Thank you, my friends. Now that you’ve approved my latest passion, what’s new with yours?”
John laughed, “Well, America now has more Model Ts than bathtubs.”
“How delightful!”
“Rudy left.”
“What? You’re joking!”
Fritz shook his head. “No joke. He’s gone over to Packard.”
Ebbely refilled his glass. “I can’t believe it. For God’s sake, why?”
“To get away. Take Frederika to a new place with no memories perhaps.” Carl volunteered.
“Poor Rudy,” Zoltan lit his pipe, “now with Jimmy … two are gone.”
“Well, at least Rudy’s still alive.” Ebbely turned back to Fritz. “The war, what’s the latest here? Of course, in New Orleans they are only interested in what’s happening to the French—and with the carnage at Verdun all is gloom.”
“Oh, Ebbely—no terrible var talk on dis fine New Year’s Day.”
“Forgive me, my dear.”
But the subject had been voiced and now lay heavy about the room. Carl was the first to break the silence. “There isn’t a man on the line by now who hasn’t lost someone back home.”
“We are already shipping enough war materials to England—why can’t we just go over there and finish the job for them?”
“Yes, we probably should have gone to war when they sank the Lusitania,” Ebbely agreed.
“Thus speaks our only neutral.”
“In this bloody war there can be no neutrals—I don’t give a damn what President Wilson says.” Johann ground out his cigarette.
Fritz sighed, “Ja, we can’t hold out much longer …”
Peter lit his cigarette. “The Boss said he will burn down the plant before he makes the machinery of war.”
“Likely story,” Stan scoffed.
John disagreed, “I think he means it.”
“Henry Ford means whatever gets him a good newspaper headline.”
Ebbely jumped into a brewing confrontation between John and Stan. “Talking about headlines—I read that Ford is blaming that woman for his Peace Ship fiasco. Says—and I quote—that ‘she took him in, used him to gain importance for herself like all the money-grabbing Jews.’”
Hannah rose from the arm of her husband’s chair. “Ebbely—you hear? Young Mr. Edsel is now a fine married man. Fine vedding they had?”
“And now because he’s secretary of the whole company, last August he signed personally a thirty-four-million-dollar contract for our rubber tires with Mr. Firestone … at just twenty-two! Imagine!” added Peter proudly.
They were back to what suited them best—the subject they knew and trusted—and so talked shop, brought Ebbely up to date until Hannah announced, “Everybody! First supper of dis 1917 New Year! Ready! Come eat!”