Unexpected Gifts (27 page)

Then one day, Papa returned with his Tin Lizzie. Spreading the Model T brochure out in front of us on the kitchen table, he poured over it. “Here's where the crank shaft is, and the combustion chamber is inside here. Eugenia, Tony, the muffler is here, the body bracket there, and the differential gear is over further, over there…”

Even Mama was smiling.

But not a soul had warned us about the mud, and how, on the very next Sunday, when my family ventured forth on its first excursion together since coming to the United States, a major page in my life was about to be turned.

Papa supplied us all with goggles, warning about the dust that could fly up into the cab and soon enough, we were chugging and sputtering past the lush, tree-lined roads just outside Detroit at the incredible pace of thirty-five mph. The day was spectacular and with it, a slight breeze that made our hair flutter backwards, tickling our ears, necks, and faces, reminding us that indeed, nature did exist. The occasional person ambling along the side of the road looked tranquil and before long, all I noticed were the throated whistle of birds, insect hisses, and our mouths locked in grins. But the recent rains had converted the upcoming road into a quagmire of ridges and ruts, and before Papa could slow down, the car pitched head first into a huge mud-filled ditch.

“What the—?” he exploded as he scrambled out of the car to check the damage, grunting, snarling, and shaking his head.

“Get out, get out!” he commanded at last. Our fine outing was over.

Mama, Tony, and I climbed back up to the road to peer down at Papa in the ditch. Mama was wringing her hands, Tony, softly hiccupping, but I had to admit, I was impressed. I knew he probably longed to berate us with every fiber of his being, but his fury was kept to a minimum. After crawling back up to the road and flagging down a motorist to give us a ride back to the city, he remained remarkably composed.

Back home, there was no time to collapse. As soon as we were inside, urgent, rapid fire knocks on our door made Mama scurry over.

It was Mr. Sussman. “Please, please take me in!”

“Vat, Mr. Sussman, vat?” Mama asked.

“Adriana, please tell your parents they are after me. Tell them! I need help.”

“
Who's
after you, Mr. Sussman?”

“The government. They are looking for German men.”

I stared at him blankly. “What government? What do you mean?”

“The war in Europe, it making American government crazy!”

I turned to Papa, repeating this in our language. He shrugged, murmuring something about the German Scare.

Mama stepped aside and motioned our first American friend into the apartment but Papa held up his right hand.

“No. Stop. No come. We be in trouble. No come!”

To this day, I still sometimes picture Mr. Sussman's face. His shock, then instant panic as he skittered back down the hallway steps, alternately bumping into the wall and the banister like one of Tony's toy tops on a loose spin. I also remember my father's face. He looked triumphant, gloating; a man finally in control.

Later that night, when all was stilled save for Mama and Papa's gentle snores, I placed my finger up against my mouth to shush a sleepy Tony watching me gather my few belongings into a big satchel before closing our front door behind me, never to return.

After two hours of nocturnal wandering, I found myself in front of Bucket of Blood, one of the five hundred brothels in the city.

“What's a young girl doing out this time of night?” The voice sounded gentle and turning, I could see the woman's face matched her tone. Her hair was dark and frizzy, her bosom imposing, but even in the dark, her eyes drew me in like a homing pigeon.

“Why in heaven's name are you out here alone, about to go into a place like this?”

“I didn't intend on going inside. I was just resting.”

She paused. “You don't have anywhere to go, do you?”

I shook my head and immediately, she gently took a hold of my arm and pulled me along with her, coaxing, “Now you do. You have a place with us, dear.”

I pulled back. “Who are you?”

“My name is Sarah Braunstein, and I'm taking you to the Suffrage Center.” She laughed at my bewilderment as we started walking again.

“Suffragium, the right to vote. Our movement really started in 1848 in Seneca, New York, by two very brave women.”

“Who were they?” I pressed closer into this woman.

“Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton.”

“Please tell me more.”

Sarah smiled. “Later…later. Ah, here we are. Home.”

Inside, I was introduced to various women, one of whom made an instant impression. Her name was Corlie O'Brien, a solid looking Irish woman from Kilarny, whose grin stretched a mile and who, in spite of my obvious fatigue, immediately followed me upstairs to relate her life's story.

She claimed to be one of those one thousand plus optimistic brides who had sailed to America on the Baltic in 1907 in order to find herself a decent, rich gentlemen who could provide a very comfortable home and if she were lucky enough, stable companionship as well. She prattled on about how wonderful her ocean trip had been, how each young lass was so excited about her new American prospects. As she reminisced about the ship advancing towards the misty wharf with all these hopefuls gathered up on the top deck dressed in their best finery (her plumed hat so broad, it almost knocked the eye out of the person next to her), she could hardly contain herself.

But her ‘millionaire’ husband turned out to be cold and uncaring, treating her like a slave. Within three months, she managed to escape his clutches and slowly maneuver her way out to Detroit, ending up with Sarah and her cronies.

In the morning, I encountered a lively group of women assembled at a long kitchen table, chattering away about politics, books, newspaper articles, and the general state of the country. I had truly reached Heaven. Sarah was at one head, Corlie, the other. Together, they signaled me to join them.

“Here's Adriana. Let's tell her about our argument.” Corlie's voice pitched up a notch.

“Yes, Adriana, you might as well get used to our polemics. I was talking about how much I appreciate the East Coast Suffragists of the National Women's Suffrage Association as opposed to those living in other parts of the country, like the ladies in the American Woman Suffrage Association. I.”

Corlie broke in. “Yes, and what a bunch of intellectual snobs they are.”

“
Please
let me finish my sentence, won't you?” Sarah huffed. “Anyway, as I was saying, in the NWSA you have the heritage of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Stanton Cady, Lucretia Mott, Harriet Beecher Stowe, and Lucy Stone, just to name a few. These women have been the backbone of the Women's Movement.”

“They're not the only ones,” Corlie growled.

I placed my elbows on the table and cupped my chin onto my palmed up hands.

The Gaelic colleen continued. “I mean, what about Jane Addams and Ellen Gates Starr in Chicago? Their Hull House is legendary as a haven for wayward women and the poor. Why, they even included Fannie Barrier Williams on their board of directors. Remember, the women from the East have still refused to include any women of color.”

“Well, we did have Sojourner Truth,” Sarah spat out. “She was certainly a woman of color. And what about Church Terrell?”

Corlie's pink face was almost red. “One tough ex-slave from so many years ago and a modern woman who looks more white than Negro does not impress me.”

I whispered to my neighbor, “Is it always so animated here?”

She nodded before returning to her oatmeal. My first day had begun.

In very short order, my life transformed into a whirlwind of stimulation, from the moment I popped open my lids in the morning to late at night, when I couldn't prevent them from flopping shut. There were pamphlets to hand out on street corners, meetings to attend, endless debates about what should be the next appropriate step in their vital movement, coordination with grass root campaigns from various western states that had already been granted female suffrage (Wyoming, Utah, Washington, Kansas, Colorado, California, Alaska, Nevada, and Montana), and always,
always
unfaltering discourses that at times made my brain ache.

One day, out of the blue, Sarah stopped me in the hallway. “How about if you, me, and Corlie all go to Chicago to Jane Addam's Hull House. Would you like that?” she asked, smiling at my vehement nods.

Located on the west side of Chicago, the thirteen buildings of the Hull House complex, were impressive. Apparently the original single 1889 building was based on London's East End Toynbee Hall, where their open door policy to the poor as well as educated male university scholars had never left Miss Addam's mind.

When she and Ellen Gates Starr formed their own replica, they decided to include not only the working class people of Chicago but the university women as well. These residents, or volunteers, were given opportunities to attend literature, art, and history classes in addition to the more practical sewing and household courses.

I was wandering around the halls, peering at the framed photographs, slowly soaking in the atmosphere, when the women strolled over to me.

“I was just remembering when we found out about Lucy Stone and her father's remark to her,” Corlie said.

“What did he say?” I asked.

Sarah took over. “Apparently, Lucy Stone had always had a large, prominent mole a half inch up from her lips, which her father always claimed would be her downfall, and how her round, rough face could be easily compared to a blacksmith's apron. When Lucy did finally leave home and marry a women's rights advocate, Henry Blackwell, she made only one comment about her absent father at her own wedding. She wished her mole was much more pronounced.”

I liked Lucy Stone immediately.

Outside the complex, several high lace-collared young ladies with parasols ambled by.

“All these Gibson Girls are like porcelain dolls,” Sarah commented, eyeing them as they floated down the street.

“Well, if they're the upper crust and we're only the Hoi Polloi, that's fine with me,” I said.

“Don't get too riled up, missy!” Corlie hissed. “After all, you don't want to end up like Carrie Nation!”

“Carrie Nation?”

Sarah linked her arm through mine. “Carrie Nation was one of the most formidable women in the Temperance Movement. An old biddy firebrand who sometimes got good results. She traveled around Kansas for years, dressed all in black with only a white bib, an upright black hat trailing down her right shoulder and a raised hatchet to ward off men from entering saloons.”

That night, I was drawn into Sarah's study to view Carrie's photograph and I started to laugh. Carrie did look absurd, her dour, conservative face in sharp contrast to the steel ax she was wielding. But the next morning, when Corlie told me about how this Queen of Temperance had actually died of injuries sustained from an angry bar owner in Montana, any leftover snickers got caught in my throat.

Five weeks later I was out in California with Sarah and Corlie, riding a bannered Suffrage Train throughout the state. We stopped at more tiny towns than you could shake a stick at, towns that flashed by so fast, if you didn't stop, you would swear they were mere specs of tumble-weed rolling across the prairie.

More often as not, our largest gatherings were in seemingly insignificant whistle-stops, where the farmers in their worn-out overalls and dung-laden boots would applaud their flinty womenfolk, proud to have them all as equals.

During one of those times I observed several men in dark suits circling the crowd, beady-eyed, watchful.

“Who are those men?” I inquired.

“Pinkertons,” Sarah whispered, adding, “Rumor has it there are some hired men coming who may become violent.

“How can you both be so patient?” I asked one day.

“We've had plenty of set-backs, my sweet,” Sarah answered. “How do you think the ladies felt in 1870 when the 15
^th
Amendment promoting Negro men and ignoring all women, both black and white, was ratified? How Frederick Douglass, formerly a champion for our cause, suddenly turned against us, declaring that it was the black man's time, not the woman's.”