Sugar House (9780991192519) (19 page)

"Don't tax yourself, son. I need you to rest
so you can come home soon. Joe, the doctors told me some bad news.
I want to be honest with you and tell you what they're saying."

"What, Ojciec?" Joe wondered what other bad
news awaited him. He squared up his small bony shoulders and
waited.

"Well, the doctors say… . Well son, you only
have one lung that works now. They say the other one will never
work again. I'm sorry Joe. They say you won't be able to run and
play anymore. Dr. Levy says you'll have to find a quiet office job
when you grow up and that colds and influenza will affect you worse
than others. " Ojciec looked down at his feet, not able to look
into Joe's eyes.

Relieved, he replied, "I already knew that,
Ojciec. I listen to the nurses when they think I'm asleep. I'll be
able to run and play… don't worry. My other lung is as strong as
most boys with two good lungs. I'm not going to let this illness
beat me. Every time I feel weak and tired, I think of this boy I
saw last summer at the park. He'd tripped and fallen and the train
had run over his arm. But he still played and ran with all of us at
the park. That's how I am going to think of my lung. I lost one but
I'll still be able to throw balls and run and play."

"Of course you will, Joe. You are a
Jopolowski and we are fighters! How proud you make me. The doctors
think if you continue to gain strength they will discharge you in
time for Christmas. Please keep working to get stronger."

"Sure, Ojciec, I definitely want to be home
for Christmas. I missed it last year."

"We'll have an enormous celebration this year
when you come home. We'll get a Christmas tree and have a feast!
You just get better, son."

Autumn passed slowly, but each day Joe felt
sturdier. Every day the nurses worked his atrophied muscles,
encouraging his legs and arms to grow stronger. Joe worked
arduously, and he continued to pray to God for strength before
falling into an exhausted sleep. Eventually he was able to walk
around the hospital grounds without assistance.

The first week of December came, and Dr. Levy
visited Joe in the boys ward.

"Well Joe, looks to me like you are fully
recovered. The hospital is discharging you tomorrow, but you will
not be able to go to school for a while. You must continue to rest
and get stronger at home. If you push yourself too far you will
just end up back here, do you understand?"

"Yes sir, is my father coming for me
tomorrow?"

"No, I told your father I would come for you
and drive you home. I thought you might enjoy a nice ride now that
you are better. Does that sound good to you?"

"Yes sir! Thank you, Doctor Levy… for
everything."

"Well, we weren't sure you were going to make
it, Joe. You sure gave us all a scare. I've never seen a boy as ill
as you recover. You have a strong drive inside of you. That will
come in handy for the rest of your life. You keep that inner
strength and you won't have any problems surviving. God must have
great plans for you," Doctor Levy said, patting Joe on the
shoulder. "Now you just need to gain a little weight and we can
send you back to school so you can be a normal little boy. I'm sure
your mother can take care of that part on her end. She's been
sending baked goods and her good Polish food to my office every
week to thank me for taking care of you. I'm glad you're better…
maybe I can lose a few pounds now." He patted his expanding abdomen
and laughed.

The following day the nurses wheeled Joe out
to the portico at the hospital entrance, where Dr. Levy was waiting
in his shiny Model T. Joe got out of the wheelchair and turned to
face the nurses. He thanked them for helping him in his recovery.
Glancing at the wheelchair, he made a promise to himself that he'd
never again be confined to a bed or chair. Joe opened the door to
the Model T, sat down, and waved at the nurses as Dr. Levy drove
off.

"Thanks for driving me home, Dr. Levy," Joe
began. "It really wasn't necessary. My father could have come for
me."

"It's my pleasure, Joe. Now, I know you are
anxious to get home, but I was hoping we could go for a short
drive?"

"If my parents won't be upset… aren't they
expecting me?"

"I informed them of my plans and they agreed.
Now, if you are also in agreement…"

Joe nodded his assent, and the physician
drove down Woodward Avenue. Pointing to the left he said, "This is
Grand Boulevard, Joe. It was designed to be a park around the city
limits, but it's not really the park they envisioned; there are
hospitals, orphanages, and factories here now. Henry Ford completed
his hospital on Grand Boulevard just two years ago. Now all of
Detroit's finest are making their homes beyond it, so the
politicians moved the city limits outward again."

He drove a few blocks further, where he
turned off the busy boulevard onto Longfellow Avenue and headed
west. Large homes dotted the quiet street, each different in
appearance. Between vacant lots of land brand new homes stood two
and three stories high, with decorative facades and short front
yards. Several had towers with pointed steeples grandly facing the
street. The trees were bare, as it was December; but it was easy to
imagine the shaded canopy the elm trees would provide in warmer
months. Ornamental shrubbery enhanced the landscape of every
yard.

"This house is the home to Frank Navin. Do
you know who he is?" The doctor pointed to one of the smaller homes
on the street.

"Yes sir! My father and I went to his stadium
last year to see the Tigers play! He lives there? Wow." Joe thought
that a man who had the money to build an enormous stadium would
live in one of the large mansions on the avenue and not a simple
two story home. "Who lives in the bigger houses?"

"The founders of the big stores downtown,
attorneys, real estate brokers, judges, even a few physicians. Not
myself of course. But mostly the auto barons."

"Like Mr. Ford?"

"Yes and Mr. James Couzens. He was Mr. Ford's
general manager. That stone mansion with the large chimney over
there is his. He invested twenty-four hundred dollars with Ford
back in the early 1900s, and it sure paid off for him—in the
millions. Earlier this year he left Ford and now he is the police
commissioner for the city."

Driving one block south, they turned onto
Edison Avenue and passed a Cadillac driving in the other direction.
"That was William Fisher in that automobile. He's building a house
on this street. He and his brothers own Fisher Body Company; they
make the auto bodies for several auto companies. Let's see… they
manufacture for Cadillac, Ford, and… oh yes, Studebaker. I think
there are seven brothers who own the company."

Joe studied the stone workers constructing
the elaborate home. Men perched on scaffolding were assisting a
complicated lever system to haul large stones up to the second
floor and place them on the exterior of the house. Others stood and
yelled directions, their faces bright red from the biting cold
wind.

"They're building these enormous homes all
over this area—they call it the Boston-Edison District. The Rabbi
for my synagogue, Temple Beth El, lives here on the corner. The
doctor indicated a smaller two-story brick home with a large porch
and white painted steps. The pretty porch had a peculiar arched
window carved into the brick under siding. "Not a very large house.
I guess the synagogue's not paying him too much." He laughed.

After traveling a bit farther down the
avenue, Dr. Levy pulled over the Model T and parked at the curb.
"This was Mr. Ford's home till last year. Above the garage is a
machine shop he had built for his son Edsel," he said, pointing to
a stately home that sat on at least three lots. Joe knelt on the
fabric seat to get a better view. The house had a charmingly
classic design and reminded him of a large fairy tale cottage.
Perhaps his imaginative perception was due to the elaborate gardens
that surrounded the home. Vines hung from a long wooden arbor on
the side of the home, which was surrounded by ornamental trees and
shrubbery.

"I can see why Mrs. Ford wanted to move out
to the country. She sure must love flowers," Joe said.

"Yes, and bird watching. Not so many birds
around here with all the construction and factories." Immediately
to the west of the home was a park the width of an entire block
which beckoned the residents to picnic, play, and stroll. Ancient
trees rose above the park, intermingled with benches and picnic
tables.

A couple minutes later the doctor put the car
in gear and turned onto Second Avenue. "I'm going to double back so
I can show you some of the mansions that the clothiers have built.
They drove up a few blocks and turned onto Boston Boulevard. A
large landscaped island separated the two sides of the street.
"This neighborhood has been a beehive of activity the last couple
years. Building these huge homes takes a lot of men and material
that have to be trucked in every day. This first home on your right
belongs to Wolf Himelhoch. He attends the same synagogue I do. Mr.
Himelhoch owns a woman's clothing store on Woodward Avenue. Have
you been there, Joe?

"No, but I've seen it."

"Benjamin Siegel lives on this street too.
His store, B. Siegel Company, sits right across the street from
Himelhoch's and is a fierce competitor. Funny, they make their
homes across the street from each other just like their businesses,
huh, Joe?"

Joe nodded in agreement but had to admit that
he might live next door to the devil if he could live his life in
such luxurious style. The fronts of some of the great homes were
festooned with evergreens in preparation for the Christmas holiday.
Lights glittered inside, and an occasional Christmas tree could be
seen twinkling in a large front window. Snowflakes lazily drifted
through the air and landed on the eaves and roofs as if the wealthy
owners had ordered the white trimmings from above.

Dr. Levy was still listing the homes of
Detroit's leading citizens as they drove further down the street,
"… and Mr. Kresge lives at the end of the street and Mr. Ira
Grinnel right here."

"I've been to both those stores! I heard a
record played at Grinnel Brothers' store right before I got sick.
And there was a mulatto pianist there who played this neat music…
umm… ragtime!"

"Don't be surprised when you see more
mulattos and blacks around the city now. Since you've been in the
hospital they've been arriving by droves to try to get work in the
auto factories. I would guess more than thirty thousand have come
since you took ill. They even started a committee this summer to
help them get acclimated—it's called the Detroit Urban League.
Volunteers for the league go to the Michigan Central Depot station
every day and meet them when they get off the train. The League
tries to find a place for families to stay for a little while,
helps them acculturate to city life, and shows them how to dress
for our northern environment."

"Do you mean because they're from down south
that group tells them it's cold in the winter and they'll need
coats?" asked Joe.

"Well yes, I'm sure that's part of it, but
they also pass out pamphlets titled the 'Dress Well Club.' The
Urban League members believe that segregation of the Negroes is
partially due to southerners who dress like Mother Hubbards—wearing
worn, thin clothing that people should only dress in to clean
houses. They distribute these pamphlets to newcomers when they get
off the train so they should know how to dress and how to behave,
and then they invite them to learn about what the Urban League can
offer—help with food, a place to live, finding work, and so
on."

"That's nice of them. I wonder if my parents
got a 'Dress Well' pamphlet when they came through Ellis
Island."

"I don't know, Joe. I came over many years
ago through Canada, so the procedures have been different." Dr.
Levy's tire ran over a large rock in the road that had fallen off a
construction truck and Joe bounced high in his seat, his head
almost touching the roof. He looked over at the physician, worried
the Model T's tire or chassis was damaged but Dr. Levy smiled at
Joe and continued down the street.

"These seats have some spring to them don't
they, Joe? It's one of my favorite things about driving this thing
around. My wife complains, but I like a little bounce in my buggy."
He laughed. "Now look over there… that enormous estate is called
Stonehedge. Walter Briggs built it last year. He's one of those men
who like to show off his income. Do you know who Briggs is?" he
asked.

"No sir." Joe looked at the enormous mansion
with multicolored stonework. Four chimneys rose up above the
three-story roof, and a gated portico stood covered at the side of
the great home. To have so much wealth was incomprehensible to Joe.
In his eyes, the home was as large as the hospital he had just
left. "I've never seen anything like it… even when I took the boat
to Boblo Island with my family and saw the mansions sitting on the
river. How could anyone have that much money?"

"Sometimes it's just good timing, Joe. Mr.
Walter Briggs worked for Everitt Carriage Works in the late
eighteen hundreds, just about the time your Mr. Ford was building
his Quadracycle in his garage. Briggs bought the carriage house and
started making car bodies for Ford in 1909. Now his company
manufactures bodies for Ford and Hudson. Looking at the size of
Stonehedge and that house William Fisher is building, there must be
a lot of money in making automobile bodies. Of course, timing
combined with a good gut sense works, too.

Joe stared out the window onto Boston
Boulevard. The expansive lawns, the homes, and the trees created a
tranquil atmosphere, but there was an undercurrent of
industriousness throughout the district. Perhaps the feeling
derived from the immigrant workers erecting the giant estates, or
maybe it came from the servants cleaning and cooking inside the
homes. Possibly, he sensed the determination of a Negro maid
traversing the sidewalk nearby, as she carried a basket of
groceries on her head. Or perhaps the feeling arose from the power
of inspired minds from the men who resided in those mansions—the
men who were constructing a new economy for Detroit, the men whose
ideas were forging new ways of travel, of life really, and in that,
a new means of freedom.