Unexpected Gifts (26 page)

But Sonia hung back. “I should visit with Dad, don't you think?” Ignoring Lily's I'm-done-with-him-today look, she sat down next to him.

“I was wondering if you would deign to visit me,” was his greeting.

She bent down to graze his cheek but not before she caught Lily at the doorway, mouthing, ‘I told you so.’

“Dad, I really want you to meet that friend of mine some time, okay?”

“You mean the gimp?”

“Nice, Dad. Nice. Well, I'll leave you to your moods.”

Upstairs she started extracting the Adriana journals from her bag. “Pretty interesting stuff and I didn't have a clue that Grandpa Tony died that way. How ironic!”

Lily nodded. “Yeah. I guess the moral of that story is, you might as well do whatever makes you feel good because you never know what's around the corner.” Suddenly she got that far away look.

Were they ever going to get over Vietnam?

“Mom.” She watched Lily come back to reality. “Mom?”

“Yes?” She opened the trunk.

“I still think Dad should meet Martha. Maybe if he could see he's not the only one with a raw deal in life, he might…”

“We've been over this, Sonia. You can try, but I honestly don't think he's capable of change.” She started digging into the boxes.

“I also hated the way it ended with Adriana interfering in Daria and Joe's life.”

Lily nodded. “I agree. It really wasn't her business. Particularly since she left her family herself.”

“Oh, yeah? How did that happen?”

“Ah…that's coming up in her diaries of when she was young. You're going to also learn about the Suffragists.”

Sonia dug into the Adriana Box and extracted an old crinkled photograph of two women. Turning it over, she pointed to the names on the back.

“Sarah and Corlie. Are these women important as well?”

Lily gave a quick nod. “Yes, those were the Suffragists Adriana lived with.” Next, she pulled out a book called
“American Boy's Handy Book.”
The binding was tattered, the pages marked and underlined.

“An odd book for a girl, don't you think?”

“You sound just like your great-grandfather Andrei! The point is she was no ordinary girl.”

The following item was bulky. Unfolding it, Lily revealed a torn, yellowed cloth banner, smoke-stained and mildewed. It read,
“Voting is a Right for
All
Americans!”

“Wow! She was really into this stuff, wasn't she!”

Lily laughed. “She sure was. When it comes to good, independent female stock, Sonia, just remember your great aunt Adriana. Don't get side-tracked.
Never
do anything you feel in your heart is wrong.”

Yeah, yeah. Great segway into a nag, Sonia's mused as she reached into the box again then let out a gasp.

In her hand was an official prison form with a date and at the bottom, a signature. Looking up at her mother, she watched her lips form the words, “Read it!”

Before leaving that night, Sonia felt Lily's hand on her sleeve. “You know, Adriana definitely made choices. I guess she had to, in order to survive. But remember, her decision to leave her family didn't come to her in a day.”

“So?”

Lily leaned in. “So, what I'm trying to say is maybe right now you're looking too hard for answers. Let it come to you naturally. Relax and go with the flow, man.” Making the Peace sign, she was grinning as she closed the front door behind her daughter.

By eleven p.m., settled in bed and looking forward to deep, Jungian dreams, Sonia was suddenly reminded she had an animal living in the apartment. Petra, in a desperate effort to get cuddly with her owner, had become clumsy. First, she walked across the top of Sonia's headboard, then she stepped on the pillow next to her and finally, just before she settled down on top of her guru's shoulder, she stepped across the answering machine, toeing the messages button.

“
Message Number One.
Hey, Sonia, this is Harry. Look, I'm sorry if I said anything to offend you the last time we met. Believe me, that wasn't my intention. And, ah, as far as school is concerned, can we meet later this week? I've got some more interesting material to run by you. Well, I guess that's all I have to say. Call me when you can. Take care.”

“
Message Number Two.
Hey, Babe! Where are you? Remember, you're the one. Call me, huh?”

Her last cognition before she slipped into total unconsciousness was an odd one. Talk about choices, she thought as she imaged Adriana standing next to her, handing her a banner that read:
Everyone Has the Right to Make Up His or Her Own Mind.

“Women are not in rebellion against men. They are in rebellion against worn-out traditions.” -
Carrie Chapman Catt, June 1914

“We hold these truths to be self-evident; that all men and women are created equal…” -
Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Declaration of Sentiments, 1848

As plain Adriana, a Gibson Girl I would never be. I would never have my hair swept up like a giant rose petal, enshrouding my perfect, even features, and there would be no white, high-collared lace dresses with colorful satin sashes that matched my patent leather shoes and handbag.

But I was intelligent. Back home in Bulgaria, I had had at least a modicum of acknowledgment of my scholarly talents from my not-so-plain papa, but in a camera's click it was gone. The Event, followed by our sudden flight to America suddenly overshadowed all else. What was The Event? I was never told. All I knew was that after years of Papa staying up all night at the kitchen table studying to become Dr. Andrei Balakov, years of interning at the local hospital and bragging about how much more capable he was than the other doctors, everything evaporated in an instant one dreary night. The night when he staggered into our kitchen, ignored Mama's kavarma simmering on the stove, and sank down onto a chair, his face the cold blue tint of marble.

Weeks later, we entered Ellis Island much like many immigrants before us; insecure, bone-weary from ship travel, and just watching Papa attempt to speak in English, left a hurt in my heart.

“I, Andrei Balakov, my—my family, Balakov,” he stammered, his eyes bulging.

“Can you repeat your name? How do you spell that?” The interrogator snapped.

Papa froze, then looked over at Mama who shrugged.

“Spell, spell—ABC. Don't you get it?”

Papa's faced was the color of raw meat. I stepped forward. “B-A-L-A-K-O-V,” I announced.

The man took it all down, gritting his teeth. “Teach your father how to speak English for God's sake.
NEEEXT!
”

Our family unit was herded past human queues, towards a group of doctors. There, it was even worse. Papa kept sputtering, “Incompetence, incompetence,” when one of the young doctors examined our ears and noses, listened to our hearts, and roll-knuckled our stomachs. Finally, Papa had had enough. He shoved his right hand out vertically like a policeman halting a civil unrest, and as the doctor grumbled, “Foreigners! Foreigners!” we blindly followed Papa away from the overcrowded main hall with the iron railings, Mama clinging onto Tony for dear life and I distancing myself from my ever increasingly irate father. At last we settled down on our suitcases and looked around us. Most people appeared dazed, except for a neatly dressed man sitting directly across from us on one of the few wooden benches.

He stared at us for so long, Papa felt compelled to speak up.

“Vat? Vat?”

The man smiled. “Notink. You have nice family I tink. Nice family.” He continued, “My name is Gunter Sussman. I from Germany. Where you from?”

Papa looked blank. “We are from Bulgaria,” I answered.

He nodded. “Detroit. You go to Detroit.”

Papa looked at me, the whites of his eyes growing more prominent.

“Why Detroit?” I inquired.

The man leaned in conspiratorially. “Ford Motor Company. Many car companies. Many jobs there! I go there. I will live with my cousin and his family. You come vit me!”

Translating this to Papa, I was surprised to see him looking intrigued.

“Detroit?” he managed and inside of ten minutes, he had become fast friends with this perfect stranger, this Mr. Sussman who, as it turned out, was true to his word. He did get us an apartment next to his cousin's on Hastings Street, a predominantly Jewish and east European neighborhood, and the following week, miracle upon miracles, both he and Papa obtained jobs at the Ford Motor Company.

Mama looked relieved, and I was introduced to my new local public school on Porter Street, where I spent many happy hours and days devouring books and lessons alongside children from various European countries, just like me. Whatever English I had learned in Bulgaria kept me in good stead here in America. I rose to the top of my class in very short order, so, for me, coming to America was a very good thing indeed.

I enjoyed watching things like the corset-less ladies on Belle Isle desperately trying to walk down the winding paths in their tight, narrow Hobble Skirts, looking more like upturned snakes wiggling forward than young, winning ladies out on a Sunday stroll. At a local bookstore I often thumbed through
The American Boys Handy Books
series, describing how to construct kites, sailboats, or snowshoes for the same cold white winters we had experienced in Bulgaria.

“Eugenia, she's only a girl. All this information is useless. Put some sense into her,” Papa would hiss.

Mama wore her nervous look. “Yes, Andrei,” she said, turning to me. “Adriana, why do you need to know all this information?”

I stared back at her, the current popular song,
She Was Only a Bird In a Gilded Cage
coming to mind. Perhaps Mama wasn't gilded, but she was certainly caged.

Even with Papa's paycheck, Mama kept hinting about taking in laundry to wash in our apartment. After all, eggs were twelve cents a dozen, butter a whopping eighteen cents a pound. Swiss cheese that Papa devoured was up to twenty-five cents and coffee, well, that was an entity onto itself. But his response was always the same; no wife of his was going to work. Ever.

As for his purchasing a Model T sometime in the near future, Mama claimed he would have to stop going to Hudson's, Detroit's Store for Men to pick up the latest soft crusher Feather-weight hat imported from Brussels for his smart Sunday outfit.

“Eugenia, I refuse to be like the rest of them at the plant, those common, dirty workers who can't even read in their own languages.”

Mama's face softened. “Andrei.”…

He caught sight of me and switched gears.

“What are you gaping at? Not an ounce of good looks and you dare to stare at me?”

I turned away.

“Adriana, remember, all your precious education doesn't mean anything, you will always be unattractive.”

For months, my insides had churned from this new, bitter Papa. How could I ever fight him? Then, from out of nowhere, a tiny seed, buried deep in my brain, began to sprout.

“Papa.” I waited for his full attention. “Papa, how are your English lessons progressing? Have you learned anything this week?”

If Mama hadn't stepped in between us, he would have surely hit me.

She cleared her throat. “Ah, Adriana, let's go to the Flickers. Andrei, you stay with Tony, will you?”

Quickly ushering me out of that apartment, we walked over to the local theater in silence. I realized the smirk on my face probably irritated my mother, but I just couldn't help it. That day I was on top of the world. And here we were, ending up at my favorite past time—the movies, where we would see the likes of Charlie Chaplin, Lillian and Dorothy Gish, Mary Pickford, and
The Vamp
, Theda Bara. There were also
The Keystone Cops
and
The Perils of Pauline
in twenty bi-weekly installments to enjoy.

As luck would have it, Mack Senett's
Fatty and Mabel Adrift
had just started to roll. Our troubles were forgotten as we watched Fatty Arbuckle and Mabel Normand in one comedic disaster after another, followed by the cross-eyed Ben Turpin who made me laugh so hard I had to retreat to the restroom with Mama in tow.

As soon as I had finished, she pulled me aside. “Adriana, you must stop defying your father. No good will come of it, believe me.”

“No good comes from being docile, either, Mama.
You
should know that.”

“Coming to this country was never his dream,” she murmured.

“Is that my fault?”

She didn't answer. She was too busy studying the Fleur-do-Lis rug pattern.

Working at the Ford Motor Company had its disadvantages; weekly visits from the Old Man's social workers were mandatory. Apparently, Henry Ford insisted on his immigrant labor force not only learning English, their households had to be orderly and spotless as well, because no employee of his should live in squalor.

I remember those visits well. The day before our ‘guests’ would arrive, Mama would scrub and clean until her lye-soaked knuckles cracked. Papa would grow tenser by the hour, sniping at me, and bringing his wife to tears as Tony retreated quietly to another room to play by himself.

“How dare they treat me this way. I have been trained as a doctor. Eugenia, is my tie straight? Adriana, help your mother. Be useful!” Papa would sputter as he washed his hands for the sixth time.

Punctual to the nth degree, the Ford people would converge at our apartment, wiping their finger tips across any available surface and barely speaking to Papa who stood mute, his face the color of Tony's red metal fire truck while I engaged them in full conversations, showing off the ever-widening gap between my English proficiencies and Papa's.

“Well, your daughter has certainly learned English, Mr. Balakov. You must be very proud,” they would proclaim in unison as they filed out the front door. I'd make sure to smile and curtsey, play-acting the obedient child to the hilt, knowing full well a cuff to the back of my head would come as soon as the door was bolted behind them.

But being gainfully employed at Ford also reaped some benefits. For example, Papa told us he could get a sizable discount on a Model T, and we would also receive free passes to the Detroit Auto Show.

Detroit. The city that once a year since 1910, had sponsored one of the largest gatherings of vehicles in the entire country. The first time we attended one of these auto shows, Papa proudly guided us into the riverfront Wayne Gardens as if he were Henry Ford himself, lecturing on the merits of buying a Ford as opposed to cars manufactured by Babcock Electric, Winton Motor Company, Premier Motor, Oldsmobile, Maxwell, or H.H. Franklin Motor Co.

We soon ran into several of Papa's co-workers and instead of being standoffish, he became uncharacteristically sociable.

“Villiam, Alexis, Lamar, goot see you. Dis here my boy, Tony.”

The men nodded while I stared at their dirty fingernails.

“Nice to meet you young man,” they chatted easily in English, ignoring Mama and me. Finally, one of them tipped their hat to my mother. She smiled in appreciation as I stepped forward. “I'm the daughter, Adriana.”

The men chuckled at my forwardness.

“Well, young lady, how do you do?” One of them patted my shoulder.

“She notink, she notink,” Papa kept repeating.

“I must say, gentlemen, your English is quite good. Tell me, has learning English been difficult for you, because my father seems to be still having so much trouble.” I smiled angelically as they all paused, then rolled back their heads for a brief cackle.

Papa started swearing under his breath in Bulgarian as Mama, bowing and scraping, abruptly yanked Tony and me away. “We go, we go,” she muttered, her eyes never leaving Papa's face.

By 1916, I had convinced Papa to let me work as a Typewriter. I went off each morning in my crisp, new shirtwaist and long black skirt, amidst vendors’ barks, auto brake squeals, wheels clattering over cobblestone, horse whinnies, and rugs thumped by wooden sticks, proud to be so self-sufficient, so American. But week after week, month after month, after Papa held out his hand for my paycheck, my hard-earned bravado diminished.