“Pigeons—in a war?”
“Yes, Ninnie—everything will change after this—not just war itself but everyday life. The Boss and young Edsel are thinking of building these aeroplanes. They’re even talking of a Ford airport. Well, with the mighty Rouge, now Mr. Ford will have the resources to build whatever he wants.”
At the Highland Park plant, speed was now the master and mass production its perfected tool. The euphoria of entering the war in order to stop it carried the men to achieve their tasks, but the thought that nothing would ever be the same again—that from now on volume would be forever considered more important than quality—nagged. John particularly felt the disenchantment and the guilt for recognizing it as such. At work he remained his disciplined self. At home he allowed his moods full rein—confusing Jane and the children by the change in him. But as these were the days when wives knew their place, Jane did not question her husband’s behavior, simply adjusted to it as best she could knowing she was not the only Ford wife who needed to cope.
By the end of spring, anti-German fever was running high—many of the German-language papers, so numerous before 1917, had dwindled down to but a few. The famous Harmonie Club—its music steeped in German tradition—was closed down. Everywhere those of German birth were suspect spies—their first-generation German-American offspring, if not voluntary soldiers, branded traitors. Even food came under suspicion. The innocent frankfurter was cleansed of any Hun association by being given the more acceptable name of hot dog, sauerkraut became coleslaw, and hamburger, Salisbury steak; all of which made Hannah exclaim, “Vhat dey got against cabbage? And tell me, why call sauerkraut dat is pickled, coleslaw dat is not? Even wit de meat dey go crazy. A hamburger dat is ground is a Salisbury steak, dat isn’t? And a dog dat is hot—to eat? Vhere vill dis all end up?”
Hannah visiting Jane for morning coffee, put more sugar into hers. “Even our first papers no good no more for being good Americans! Mrs. Nussbaum, who has already de real citizenship because her husband already is, she tells me her Zellie is all worried because if dey have to change dere name, simply to translate dey can’t because it’s funny. Who do you know dat’s called Mr. Nuttree? But even if, on dere okayed papers it says Nussbaum so, who can change a name on real already given citizen papers, will you tell me dat?”
From then on Jane noticed that Hannah rarely used German when speaking to Fritz—quickly catching herself whenever she did.
As Sunday was neither a decreed meatless nor a wheatless day, Hannah found solace still in cooking for her boys. The dinner table was never as full—still some came to talk and bask in the ever present devotion of the one who had sheltered them when life was still a young adventure.
“Did anyone hear the British have put in an order for six thousand … Fordsons?” Carl asked, helping himself to the coleslaw that was not sauerkraut but the real thing. “Because of the German blockade, England is so short of food their farmers are desperate for our light tractor to put more land under cultivation.”
Fritz whistled, “My God, six thousand? Will the Rouge plant be ready for such an order, John?”
“Well, the new Ford and Son Company has been formed for the production of the Fordson 4-cylinder tractor and if nothing goes wrong, I think we’ll be ready to ship certainly by early winter.”
Now it was Carl’s turn to whistle. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph! That fast? Now all they have to worry about is not getting torpedoed on the way over to England.”
“I hear Ford is planning to buy his own newspaper.” Zoltan helped himself to gravy. “Isn’t our Ford Times good enough anymore? John, you are always up on these things, what does he need a real newspaper for?”
“To reach a broader readership perhaps. Evangeline—and if any of you say one word, I’ll crown you—”
“Go on, mum’s the word!” Carl laughed.
“Well, she said she thought it might be for political reasons.”
“Don’t tell me the Boss believes this talk going around about him running for office.”
“Well,” Fritz put down his napkin, “I heard someone say the other day if Henry Ford ran for president he could win.”
“Every common man who owns a Model T would vote for him for sure,” Peter agreed, “and don’t forget the farmers.”
“When do you think we’ll be ready to send our boys over?” asked Carl.
“I don’t think they can be armed and ready until late summer,” answered John.
“Will young Mr. Edsel have to go?” asked a concerned Peter.
“No way. They’ll find a way to keep him out.” Carl was adamant.
“He will insist on going if they call him up,” said John, ever the defender.
“It’s embarrassing enough Ford has us out—at least his son should go,” Zoltan countered.
Jane, clearing, ventured, “I heard young Mrs. Edsel might be in the family way.”
Zoltan smiled up at her. “Well—if that’s so—that would help to keep our young heir safely at home.”
“No need for sarcasm, Zoltan.”
“None intended, John.”
With a war not fought on home soil, everyday life is permitted its normalcy, children’s birthdays were celebrated—John’s first and Michael’s third amongst them and when it was time again for Molly to lumber down the street, his scalawags chased Mr. Kennec’s wagon for their icy treats. Fresh strawberries were made into succulent jam, ripe currants into shimmering jelly, wash hung out on the line whitened under a summer sun. Even with restrictions—Hannah’s Glory Day picnic baskets were packed, taken to Belle Isle, and even with some missing who had been amongst them the year before—it still was a happy time.
Under the command of its leader, the First Division, America’s hastily assembled expeditionary force was creating havoc over in France, yet not in the trenches. Though the British were desperate for new cannon fodder as were the French, General Pershing was adamant that when America fought—it would do so within its own units, not have its fighting men integrated into the ranks of its needy allies back home. Not only patriotism made everyone want to attend liberty loan parades—they were exciting, offering marching brass bands playing rousing tunes accompanied by enthusiastic flag waving assuring glorious victory by investing in liberty bonds.
Hannah’s first exposure to such joyful patriotism in the city of Detroit resulted in all future baking in the Geiger household being done to the vocal accompaniment of George M. Cohan. Beating a yeast batter was perfectly suited to a rousing chorus of
“Over der—Over der,
send de word, send de word, Over der—
Dat de Yanks are coming, De Yanks are coming …”
Whereas making beds required Irving Berlin.
“Oh how I hate to get up in de morning …”
For slicing onions Hannah’s repertoire went British.
“Pack all your troubles in your old kit bag and smile—smile—smile …”