Sugar House (9780991192519)
Read Sugar House (9780991192519) Online
Authors: Jean Scheffler
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A Novel
Jean Scheffler
Copyright 2013 by Jean Scheffler
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the
express written permission of the publisher except for the use of
brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of historical fiction; the
appearance of historical figures is therefore inevitable. Names,
characters, places and incidents either are products of the
author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.
First Printing, 2013
Cover Designed by Karrie Ross
ISBN 978-0-9911925-0-2
Published by: Jean Scheffler
Ebook Formatting by
www.ebooklaunch.com
For my Grandfather who inspired this tale and taught
me that anything is possible with a little hard work and a sense of
humor.
Contents
Prologue
Detroit. To many modern persons the name implies
poverty, decay, corruption and violence. To lovers of the city's
rich history the name means much more. I grew up in the suburbs of
this unique city, listening to the stories of the exciting place it
had been before my birth. Many of the tellers had lived there
during the time when it was a bustling, exhilarating place... "The
New York of the Midwest" it had been called. From the back seat of
my parent's brown Pontiac Phoenix, this little blonde haired girl
would look up the enormous skyscrapers and even then, I could see
the beauty of the architecture and thoughtful care that had gone
into the storefronts, parks and homes. Much has been written about
why Detroit crumbled and how to rejuvenate the once great town.
Both are difficult topics with no simple answers that I or most are
able to answer.
To be truthful, my interest in the city's
history began with a love for the romantic feel of the 1920's; a
party atmosphere where men were gentlemen and women were ladies and
dressed the part. The beautiful cars, glittering movie palaces, the
doormen and valets. Even the double-dealing gangster dashing down
the brick paved streets had a glamorous feel. But as I watched old
movies, read as much as I could find on the topic and begged anyone
over the age of eighty to share their stories, I learned much
more.
And I remembered back to a time when I would
wake early in my Grandfather's cottage on a little lake in Northern
Michigan and crawl onto his lap where he was rocking by the stone
fireplace. There in the quiet of the morning before my sister or my
seven girl cousins would awake he would share with me his stories
of growing up in Detroit. These were not the romantic stories of
the black and white movies that I loved to watch. His story was one
of poverty (although he didn't tell it that way), and street
smarts, and neighborhood unity, and hard work with some occasional
mischievous fun thrown in. A world where a third grade education
didn't define a man's worth and bending the law to try to survive
was not looked down upon.
When I became a gerontology nurse at the
young age of twenty-one I was lucky enough to again learn from this
country's greatest generation. Any down time I had during a shift I
would search out a patient who wanted to talk for a little while.
On those late evenings after the last medications were passed, as
I'd sit at the bedside of a World War Vet or hold the hand of a
ninety year old housewife I'd feel a warmth in the dark ward as
they quietly shared the story of their lives. I learned not only
historical facts but the true feelings, emotions and struggles
their lives had held.
As I entered my thirties and the decline of
Detroit became the main focus of the evening news, my mind wandered
over all the accumulated history I had had the privilege to learn.
True, I had never lived during the time when Detroit was the jewel
of the Midwest but I could definitely imagine it as it had been.
And when I found during conversations with coworkers, friends and
strangers of my generation that most were unfamiliar with the
history of our great city I was saddened. I wanted to record it as
I saw it for the grandchildren of the citizens who created it and
for the great grandchildren who will hopefully see it rise
again.
Confucius says, "Study the past if you would
define the future." I honestly believe this to be true. I hope by
my telling this small story based loosely on a few facts from my
grandfather's life I can contribute to the next generation's
commitment to keep Detroit and its history alive. For it is their
ancestors who built, worked, played, slept, cried, laughed and
loved there also.
One
1915
Pospiesz sie, pospiesz sie!
(Hurry, Hurry!)
thought Joe as he rushed down the tree-lined street. His father was
expecting him to bring his dinner, and if he did not hurry Ojciec
(Father) would not have time to eat the kielbasa sandwich Matka
(Mother) had prepared. He'd been watching his two-year-old brother,
Frank, while Matka gossiped at the market. Now he needed to run to
avoid a reprimand from Ojciec. His small frame weaved quickly down
the wooden sidewalk between neighbors, strangers and children.
Watching for cars and horses, he crossed the street and headed
north. He could see the steeple of St. Josaphat's looming two
hundred feet above the houses, and he was anxious to arrive at the
construction site.
Strangers he passed on the busy street would
not have noticed the small boy. He looked like all the Polish boys
in the neighborhood. His clothes were fairly clean—short brown
pants with stockings, a small brown overcoat and a flat hat pulled
over his shaggy blond hair. But anyone who stopped him to ask for
directions or to say dzień dobry (Good Morning) would probably have
blinked a few times and stared. Under his cap were eyes the bright
azure of the sky on the Fourth of July, the sparkling sapphire of
the water surrounding Belle Isle Park, the aqua of a little girl's
traditional costume on a saint's day and the powder blue of a
morning sunrise when the day holds all possibilities.
Small shoulders squared, chest out, he walked
confidently with his chin held high. His stature was average for an
eight-year-old, and he didn't stand out at school when it came to
marks. But he was strangely self-assured. His aunt whispered that
he was a stary dusza-an old soul. However, steadfastness and the
will to fight ran thick through his blood. A century of poverty and
oppression in the old country had fused a thick rope of
determination into his genetic code. When he was a small child
sitting on his mother's lap, she'd told him she believed he had a
special fate and was destined for great things in this new country.
Joe was special.
When he greeted an adult at the five-and-dime
or at the market he looked the person straight in the eye, reached
out his hand, smiled and addressed the person as an equal. For a
child so small to behave this way could have been off-putting, but
Joe seemed to put people at ease with this tactic. Men would smile
and shake his hand; women would lean down to further inspect his
beautiful eyes and compliment his manners. Even older children
would listen to his stories and let him lead their games.
As he neared the construction site, the noise
of the city grew much larger. St. Josaphat's was the newest Polish
church the archdiocese had commissioned to be built. There were two
other large Polish churches within two miles, yet the population of
Polish Catholics had become so large in Detroit that the Church was
continually erecting more houses of worship. The original wooden
chapel had been rebuilt into a massive cathedral only fifteen years
prior, but the school was updated only this year. The school was
almost complete, and Joe and his classmates would soon move from
the old school.
Crossing the red brick street, Joe stepped
onto the site and searched for his father. He was careful, as he
knew that bricks falling from above were a common occurrence. The
men joked that a brick that landed on a Polish man's head would
bounce off. But Joe knew this was only a barb that helped alleviate
their fear of injury. He'd recently heard of a neighbor who was
killed when a bucket of mortar fell from a second story. His widow
and five children now depended on the church's and the
neighborhood's charity to survive.
Jumping over a mud puddle, he made his way
closer to the new school. His father volunteered his labor at the
site on Saturdays. The Jopolowski family was proud to belong to St.
Josaphat's, as it was one of the larger churches in the area. The
Felician sisters who taught in the school were highly educated.
Joe's parents revered the teaching nuns; Joe, however, did not feel
the same adoration. The sisters insisted on calling him Joseph
despite the fact that his birth certificate clearly stated his name
was Joe Jopolowski. He'd even brought it to school and shown it to
Sister Mary Monica to no avail. She had responded curtly, "Joe is
not a given name," and there was no further discussion.
Joe slowed down to say hello to Mrs.
Stanislewski, who was carrying her husband's dinner in a small
woven basket in the crook of her arm. The hem of her long, dark
dress brushed the dirty sidewalk as she leaned down to kiss his
flushed cheek. She stood up and grabbed the edge of her embroidered
apron and patted her face. Joe complimented the bright red babushka
that donned her head.
"Oh this?" she said in Polish, patting the
pretty cloth. "It was a gift from my grandmother. She gave it to me
the day I left for America. She passed last year. I was thinking of
her this morning as I got dressed, so I pulled it out of my drawer.
Of course, I hadn't seen her in ten years; but I can still see her
standing at her cottage door waving goodbye like it was yesterday."
Joe nodded and politely said goodbye as he moved on. He heard
stories like Mrs. Stanislewski's every day. Many of the
parishioners hailed from the same area of Poland as Joe's family.
It seemed that every adult he knew had left someone behind in the
old country.
The noise and commotion of the construction
site had a celebratory feeling. Men shouted out in Polish and
laughed and joked with their friends. Some whistled folk songs
while they worked. Some waved to Joe and called out greetings.
"Dzień dobry maly czlowiek! (Good Morning, little man" Older men
teased. "Pozno? Ha! To s? na to! (Late? Ha! You are in for it!)
Scurrying over the piles of bricks and wood, Joe quickly found his
father.
At five foot eight, Mikołaj Jopolowski was
not a large man, nor was he demonstrative with his affections. He
loved his young son, but he had left the raising of him mostly to
his wife, Blanca, until recently. Growing up in a poor village,
Mikołaj had scrimped to save enough money to make the passage to
America. He'd arrived in New York ten years ago and had made his
way to Calumet, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, to work in the
copper mines. Nine months ago, Mikołaj and his two brothers had
heard of Henry Ford's five-dollar-a-day jobs and had brought their
families to Detroit to work in the automobile plants. As an
unskilled workman, Mikołaj was making almost twice what he'd been
paid to labor in the cold, dark mines.
