Joe rolled over in bed and put his small hands together in prayer. He prayed, "God, give me strength."
Suddenly he felt a heavenly warmth surround his lungs and then his entire body. For the first time since being in the sanitarium, Joe felt at peace. He knew he'd received an answer to his prayer. He reached inside himself, grabbed onto the fighting side of his soul, and decided to battle his illness.
Every day Joe used will power to perform the exercises prescribed by his physicians. The nurses told him to stop when they saw sweat pouring down his pale brow and forced him back to bed, but Joe continued flexing and moving and deep breathing under the covers after they left. It took several weeks for his condition to improve enough for the doctors to allow his father to visit him again. The first time he saw his father after his relapse, Ojciec had tears pouring down his face.
"Joe, I thought I'd never see you again. My son, we were so worried and frightened. Your mother cries every day, and the entire family has been lighting a prayer candle every week in church for your recovery. Marya and Pauline light one at every morning Mass before school too."
"Boy, the doctors must've made it sound real bad if Marya is lighting candles for me!" Joe attempted to laugh but broke into a ragged cough.
"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.
Dr. Levy pointed at homes on the block as the Model T rumbled down the street. "Cash Talbot's house is over here. He owns Talbot Coal Company, and by the looks of his house the rising price of coal hasn't affected his pocketbook the way it has mine. There's a shortage now because of the war. There's a shortage on many things now—wheat, fuel, sugar—and the government has informally decreed 'less' days"
"What are 'less' days? Have they shortened the week?" asked Joe.
"No son," the physician chuckled, "I meant days of the week where one goes without, like meatless Mondays or wheatless Wednesdays. This week Uncle Sam advised all Americans to have porkless Saturdays; of course all my days are already porkless." He smiled. "You'll see. The Great War hasn't affected the Children's Hospital yet, but I should think the time will come soon. You should see the ladies' section of the Detroit News, abounding with recipes to help the women cope with shortages."
Joe was aware the United States had joined the war in the spring, but not much information had been passed onto the children at the hospital. The medical staff felt if the children had knowledge of their families' daily adversities and struggles or were continually apprised of the tragedies occurring in Europe, the young boys' health would be further impeded. However, none of the nurses carin
g for his ward had been Polish, and they had not thought to confiscate the Polish newspaper his father brought him every week. So Joe gained quite a bit of knowledge regarding the war. Being a child, he hadn't perused the articles regarding shortages and make-do recipes in much detail, his interests lying in U-boats and the aeronautical adventures of the pilots flying SJ-1s and DH.4s.
"Does Henry Ford's son, Edsel, live on this street too?" asked Joe.
"No, he has an estate north of here near Belle Isle, in a neighborhood called Indian Village. Edsel just bought a home there this year and that brewer… hmm… ah, Goebel; he lives over there too. I wonder what he'll do if the temperance movement passes into law. And Goebel's competitor, Mr. Stroh, lives north of the city in an enormous mansion on Lake St. Claire. But enough of these rich brewers and capitalists for today. If one spends too much time touring areas like this, he can find himself feeling as if everyone is more affluent than he. It's time we headed home, but I have one more house to show you before we do. It was actually the reason I drove you here."
Turning back on Second Street they drove in companionable silence, and Joe thought about all the wealth he'd seen. He decided at that moment that he wouldn't live a life eking out a living in a hot factory like his father. He was proud of Ojciec, but Joe wanted what these men had: fancy new cars, clothes, servants, and power. He just wasn't sure how he was going to get it.
"I can tell you're thinking of your future, Joe." Dr. Levy interrupted his thoughts. "Be careful what you wish for, Joe; great wealth provides luxury and power, but it can also lead to great anguish."
Before Joe could ask how a man with enough money to build a castle to live in could be unhappy, the physician pulled over to a small house on the corner of Atkinson Street. "Here it is, Joe. Eight hundred Atkinson Street." Joe looked at the brick home perched on the corner. This was the smallest of all the homes they'd driven by that morning. Its small yard was prettily landscaped, but there were no discerning characteristics appearing on its fascia that could explain why the physician was peering at the front of the house and then back down at Joe with such excitement in his eyes. Joe looked at the house again and questioningly back at Dr. Levy.
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