Lingering guilt that it was he who had unthinkingly broached the subject of war, Ebbely asked Fritz in private, what if anything he thought he could do to help their friends. There had always been a sage closeness between the two, completely separate from the frills and flourish of the little man’s affection for the other man’s wife.
“Ebberhardt, my friend—I don’t think there is anything anyone can do. But it must be hard—not to be in the fight. Over there helping. Now I don’t have that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I come from the bad side—so I am not feeling guilty I’m not over there fighting for my old country. Here, this is my country now—for us Germans it is hard, but maybe also easier—know what I mean?”
“You mean it is easier to turn your back on what is bad than to desert what is good?”
“Ja, that’s what I mean.”
“You have a point. What about Rudy? He’s Austrian—does he feel the way you do?”
“You know I think he is already fighting a war—his own war—so he has no time for the Big One.”
“Poor boy—what a waste.”
“Ja, just when he made supervisor the Boss even spoke to him, called him ‘Rudy’—knew his name. Best Chassis Man I ever saw. Knows his trade.”
“John seems to be doing alright.”
“Ach, you know our John. Ever since he was a boy fresh off the boat—he never changed. He’s designing now—I don’t know what—but it’s not just tools no more. Even young Mr. Edsel thinks John is going places.”
“If Henry Ford were really God …”
“Our John would be a priest!” Fritz finished for him, laughing.
“You ever hear from that annoying nephew of Hannah’s?”
“No. Never. His parents think we did something to chase him away. Now you know we didn’t …”
“Of course not. But—you weren’t sad when he went.”
“Something about that boy—couldn’t put my finger on it—just a feeling …”
“Aha—one of your famous feelings? A good or bad one?”
“Bad.” Fritz said it softly.
“Listen, take my word for it. Never have anything to do with him again—if he ever comes back, lock the door!”
“Hey—I couldn’t do that …”
“Well, you better! Because that’s a Hun—a real Hun—even if you aren’t!”
“You think we’ll get into the war? Stan does.”
“Well, of course the papers keep it quiet—but I hear rumors. There’re so many being killed they’re actually running out of men over there. If we don’t send them reinforcements this war may last until everyone is dead or crippled.”
“Where you hear that?”
“Here and there—I even heard rumors of mutiny—soldiers just refusing to go on killing, on all sides, just leaving the trenches.”
“Mein Gott!”
“I’ve been seriously thinking of joining up myself.”
“You?”
“Yes, me! Do you know, the British are so desperate for men they now have a special battalion for little men—five feet and under?”
“You’re joking!”
“No, it’s true! I heard it in Baton Rouge from a very reliable source. They’re called the Bantams and in the trenches they dig a shelf for themselves to stand on so that they can see over the top to shoot!”
“Hannah won’t let you.”
“My dear Fritz—I admire, adore, even … cherish your wife—but there I would have to draw my masculine line.”
“We come here because no war—then the Spanish-American start …”
“That was just a skirmish compared …”
“Ja—but killing is still killing. But I worry, so much is changing, know what I mean?”
“Yes, but tell me …”
“Well, first here our Highland Park—so nice a village it was—now even our big pond is too full for free and easy skating.”
“Yes—I noticed—certainly more crowded than it was last year.”
“See. And the plant—sure I know it’s all great big business—we make lots of money—everybody gets rich—even us—but now just hard labor—standing—like Stan said long ago—what monkeys can do—but the men are not monkeys in the brain and … ! I see sometimes a sort of no complaining suffering—not just because of this war—something else—and that worries me. Ach, I talk too much!” Fritz smiled apologetically. Ebbely shook his head, motioned him to continue. “Well, I have this feeling …” Fritz held up a hand as Ebbely reacted. “Don’t get excited like Zoltan. No, this one is not for one thing—this is like for everything. Hard to explain.”
“Try.”
“Well, like I said—here too many new people—at work too many—even in the city of Detroit too many now—and every day more come and more—everywhere everything is changing—even in the whole world after this butcher’s war will never be like it used to be.”
“True, quite true. I hear some say the mass slaughter over there will be the end to all war. Can you believe that?”
Fritz repacked his pipe. “Do you?”
Ebbely shifted in his chair. “I want to. What a human tragedy it would be if it isn’t.”
“In the old country I read too many history books.”
Ebbely smiled, “Is that the German in you talking or the Jew?”
“Ach—you know Ebberhardt—I never think of that being separated.”
“You should, my friend—I think you should.”
“Why?” asked Fritz, his innocence startled.
“Just a feeling—mine this time, my friend.”
Hannah slid open the parlor doors. “What you doing you two?”
Ebbely jumped out of his chair. “I know, I know—wash up for supper—right, my Lady Fair?”
“Right, my second favorite Bubbele and take dis Fritz wit you.”
“Yes, Mama!” they caroled as they scampered up the stairs.
“Ah! It must be Noodle Day! There you are, Tall Lady!” Ebbely broke off in mid-riff.
Jane hesitated in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You don’t. Someone listening puts me on my metal. Come sit. Anything special you want to hear?”
“I like your jazz when you play it slow.”
“That’s what’s called the blues. Got the blues, Jane?”
“I don’t understand. What is blues?”
“When you’re sad—and you feel low and your heart aches with too much longing of the hopeless kind.”
“Then you’re blue?”
“Then you’re blue.”
“Why music?”
“It helps. In your homeland don’t people wail when someone dies?”
“What is wail? That’s a word I don’t know.”
“A lament, a cry to the Heavens or to God, if you prefer.”
“Oh. In Italy, down in the south they do that all the time—but that’s not music.”
“Still it’s an expression of sorrow. Here in our South, slaves created glorious music out of their sorrows. Their music has words that tell stories—listen …”
When he was done, Jane—not knowing why she felt she must whisper, asked, “Ebbely, what was that?!”
“A spiritual.”
“Not the blues?”
“A spiritual uplifts the spirit—reaches out to hope. The blues is a human complaint—a sadness that simply exists.”
Jane wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
“Have you ever seen a slave, Ebbely? What are they like?”
“Oh, child, where did you get your schooling?”
“The Benedictine nuns taught us.”
“Any American history?”
“No! Oh, Christopher Columbus, of course.”
“That’s because he was an Italian no doubt.” Ebbely chuckled running his fingers over the keys. “What about Abraham Lincoln? Ring a bell?”
Jane frowned, concentrating. “I think he was a very good American president.”