"Pauline, there is some dough rising in a bowl on the counter. Give it to Emilia and your cousins to play with at the table," Marya said to her sister. Marya opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. Joe followed. A happy whistling melody greeted their ears; Uncle Alexy was coming up the walk, swinging his metal lunchbox, happy to be home from the factory and looking forward to a three-day weekend. His bouncy step stopped mid bounce as he looked up at his daughter and nephew's faces.
"What is it? What's wrong?" he asked.
"Uncle Mikołaj" Marya replied softly. Uncle Alexy ran up the steps and swung open the door to Joe's house.
"Hattie! Blanca!" he yelled as he tore through the house looking for the women. "Where are they?" he asked Marya.
"I don't know. Mother asked me to stay next door with all the children while she told Aunt Blanca about…" she couldn't finish.
"Why didn't the army come and tell her themselves? Why did they tell Hattie?" His tone was worried and desperate. He looked over at Joe and put his large hand on his small shoulder.
"I guess they came to the wrong house," she replied. "I was outside. I think Joe heard her scream and ran to our house. I heard her scream too, but we were in the alley and it took me longer to get there. When I ran into the hall, Joe was out cold on the floor and mother was trying to wake him."
"Holy Mary, Mother of Jesus! The wrong house! Hattie! Blanca!" he yelled again.
"We're upstairs, Alexy," Aunt Hattie called down softly. "Tell Marya to watch the little ones and bring Joe up with you. It's OK."
Joe climbed the narrow stairway behind his Uncle Alexy. When they reached the top of the stairs his uncle took his shoulder again and said, "Come on, Joe. It'll be OK." Joe looked in the door of his parents' bedroom and saw his mother and aunt sitting on the side of the bed. Joe walked across the worn floor slowly until he was standing in front of his mother. He looked at her face and was surprised to see no tears had fallen. Her light blue eyes were as clear as they had been that morning.
"Matka, are you all right?" he asked. His mother didn't respond. She just kept staring out into the space that was between Joe and herself—or perhaps the space that was behind Joe. "Matka, please, are you OK?"
"She hasn't spoken in an hour, Joe. After the soldiers told her about your father she said, 'I won't cry.' She said, 'My Joe says I have to be brave and not cry,' and she hasn't said a word since. I didn't want to leave her so I've been sitting here waiting for you or Marya to come. Did you tell her not to cry Joe?"
Cry, thought Joe. What's cry? He stood there numbly for a minute. Aunt Hattie gave her husband a look as if to say, Now they're both going to be catatonic? Uncle Alexy shook Joe's shoulders and said, "Joe! Joe! Wake up. Snap out of it! Are you all right?"
Joe heard his uncle's voice in the recesses of his brain. Then he heard his father's last words to him as if he were standing right there in the room: "Now, take care of our family and don't let Matka be too sad while I'm gone, OK?"
Joe blinked and looked up at his uncle. "Yes, Uncle Alexy, I'm all right. Matka, come on now. Listen, it's Joe. Everything will be all right. I'll help you take care of Frank and Stephan. And we have family here—Uncle Alexy, Aunt Hattie, Uncle Feliks, and the cousins. We'll be all right, Matka. Please go ahead and cry. It's OK, Matka. You can cry now. Ojciec won't be disappointed if you cry. You can't always be brave. Please, Matka, please for me?"
His mother's eyes did not focus on him. He was worried it was hopeless. He looked up at his aunt and uncle questioning what he should do, when he saw Aunt Hattie breathe in slightly and let several tears pour down her round cheeks. Joe turned back toward his mother and saw that one lone tear had fallen.
Blanca reached out and gathered her eldest son in her arms. She sobbed and sobbed.
The army shipped Mikołaj's body home with an American flag draped over a plain wood coffin. The government paid for a plot at Mount Olivet Cemetery, and the funeral, at St. Josephat's, was held a few days after Joe's father took his last ride across the ocean to rest in his adopted country. Fifty or so neighbors, friends, and parishioners attended. The city had endured many funerals during the long winter, and this fact accounted for the small attendance. It was only natural that a person only slightly acquainted with the Jopolowkis would choose not to attend, to avoid reliving his own recent losses. However, a few men that had worked with Mikołaj came, as did many neighbors from their block. Even Dr. Levy came, which surprised Joe, because he didn't think a Jewish person was allowed in a Catholic Church. After the Mass, Dr. Levy took Joe aside on the sidewalk as they waited for a streetcar to take them to Mount Olivet.
"Joe, I want you to know something, and I think you are old enough to hear it, OK?" Joe nodded. "The death certificate for your father said pneumonia?" Joe nodded again. "I want you to know that I have examined these pneumonia cases a hundred times this year—even after their deaths. Do you understand what I mean?" he asked. Joe affirmed that he did, and the doctor continued. "The doctors are calling the cause of death pneumonia because they don't know what else to call it. The tissues in the lungs are scarred and blue. Pneumonia doesn't make tissue turn blue. Nothing does that we know of. It's the Spanish Influenza that is doing that. I don't know why it does or what it means, but it's that damn Spanish plague. Anyway, not that it makes a difference but I thought you should know." Dr. Levy patted Joe on the back and wished him good luck and said his condolences. Joe boarded the streetcar with his family and waved goodbye to the doctor.
When they returned from the cemetery, Joe went to his room while friends and family gathered downstairs for the wake. He didn't want to talk to anybody, and he was tired of everyone telling him how sorry they were. He knew they were sorry, but what did it mean? Were they going to help pay for the food and rent for the house? Would they help Matka find a job? Her English was much better, but who would hire her and how much could she earn? And who would watch his brothers while she was at work? Joe's little errand job seemed foolish now, and he had to decide how to earn more money to support them. He'd promised Ojciec that he would take care of their family—and he would. He just had to figure out how.
Chapter Twenty Two
1919
The train gathered speed as it headed out of the city. The surroundings changed from towering buildings and dark, smoky factories into a tranquil countryside. Joe leaned back into the plush passenger seat and gazed out the window, his hand never leaving its tight grasp on the stack of twenties in his pants pocket. He was headed south on the Michigan Central Railroad toward Grosse Ile. He closed his eyes and thought about the last time he had seen the island. Only four years earlier, he and his family had made the trek aboard the Columbia for a day's outing on Boblo and had passed by the large island summer homes of the wealthy.
Now twelve years old, he was traveling alone—and not for pleasure. The conductor and the passengers would not realize that, of course. To them he was a young boy traveling to visit a relative in the country. They wouldn't know he had five hundred dollars in his pocket to purchase liquor and transport it back to the city.
***
The year or so after his fathers' death had been difficult. Matka had found a job at a cigar factory but already the burden of watching Frank and Stephan had taken its toll on Aunt Hattie. She didn't complain, but Joe could see the beginnings of resentment creep into their family life. And even with Matka working they were not getting by very well. His mother's paycheck was half of what Ojciec had earned, and she struggled to put food on the table. The neighbors had helped in the beginning, but they had their own troubles. The church contributed a weekly basket of food and had paid for Joe's school tuition. But in the end it wasn't enough for a young family of four. Matka had grown thinner and Joe's brothers hadn't grown much at all. Joe continued his errands and odd jobs, but the family couldn't seem to make ends meet.
The winter had been very cold, and when the price of coal skyrocketed Matka was unable to heat the house very often. Stephan slep
t with their mother to share her body heat. Frank returned to Joe's bed, and this time Joe didn't complain about his brother's hot little body sidling up to him all night long. Joe ran to the railroad tracks every morning before school looking for coal that had dropped from the coal tenders passing through the city at night, but he competed for the black rocks with hundreds of children, and often he came home empty handed.
Most of the time he was hungry, but there was no use in complaining. Many children were hungry and poor. The Spanish Flu targeted young adults in their prime, and many families lost the men who provided for them during the war. Piles of furniture and clothes thrown into alleys were a common sight as landlords evicted immigrant family after family. Joe was thankful they had enough to pay the rent but feared for the future. A dark cloud seemed to hang over the city, and the poor were becoming more and more desperate.
Every day the newspapers were filled with stories of theft, burglary, and hangings. A man living a few blocks from the Jopolowski's who had been out of work went missing for several days and was found hanging from the clothesline in his backyard. Another story reported that a man who lost his wife during the flu outbreak was forced to leave his three children alone in their eighth story apartment while he was at work. His three-year-old daughter had been watching a puppy play in the street and had fallen out the window to her death. Reading the daily accounts of the destitute, hopeless, and starving only motivated Joe to work harder to help support his mother and brothers.
Joe was sitting on a bench in the park near his house racking his brain, trying to think of a way to bring home some meat for supper when a well-dressed man sat down next to him. Joe turned and instantly recognized the man. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. It was "Let's make them run home in their underwear" Ray from that long ago Halloween night. Joe had tried to steer clear of the Jewish neighborhood since that night, but the Bernstein brothers and their juvenile street gang were infamous throughout the north side of Detroit. Their gang looted boxcars, pick pocketed, shoplifted, extorted, gambled, rumbled with other gangs, and engaged in any other illegal or violent behavior imaginable. Joe had seen Ray a few times around the city, but he'd always pulled his cap down or ducked into the nearest store to avoid him.
Joe would have stood up and run away, but he didn't want to leave his wagon. And he was pretty sure Ray wouldn't pummel him in the middle of a park.
Ray looked off across the grass to a pair of swings that two little girls where playing on. "I been looking for you, Joe. I heard you've been making the rounds doing errands for old ladies, and I thought you might be interested in making some extra cash. Me and my brothers got a stake in a wholesale sugar business and we could use someone to do some errands for us."
"Why me?" Joe asked.
"We need a boy 'cause no one pays no attention to kids," Ray said. "We've been watching you for a little while. You're a hard worker, and we know your family's going thru a hard time. Your dad died in the war, right?" Joe nodded and looked down at his shoes. "So we figured you could use some dough. Everyone around here is used to seeing you pull that wagon around, so no one's gonna think any different if you do some errands for us. Plus my brother Abe remembered you from that Halloween night. He said you were a pretty smart kid to keep us from pummeling you, so you might be the one for the job."
Joe already knew the Bernstein brothers had a part in a wholesale sugar company that dealt in brewing products. Under the Prohibition law, home brewing of liquor and beer was allowed for personal consumption and the Oakland Sugar House was a legitimate business that furnished corn sugar to home brewers. However, Joe also knew that the Oakland Sugar House illegally distributed the sugar to larger-scale operations. He was not singular in having this information. Practically anyone who lived in the area knew it, even the cops. He was also aware that the men who ran the Sugar House were mean, ruthless, and the source of perpetrators of kidnappings and murders.
"What kind of errands?" was all Joe asked. Whatever answer Ray gave, he felt his fate was already mapped out. Ray looked at Joe with his wide set eyes, and when he smiled Joe noted a couple broken teeth. Never backing down from a fight had not improved Ray's dental work, but his handsome baby face combined with a strange charisma, magnetism, and violent temper had convinced many a man to consent to the gang's extortion tactics.
"Oh, just grabbing some lunch for the guys or picking up an envelope or delivering a package in your wagon… nothing too heavy or anything. Pays thirty bucks a week to start. You're still in school, right?" Joe nodded. "Well, we'll need you during the day so I guess you'll have to figure that out. I was never much for schooling. Got sent to that Old Bishop School where they send delinquents."
Ray Bernstein's eyes never stopped moving as he spoke to Joe. Ray would look him in the eye for a mere second and then glance to the left or behind him as he spoke. Joe didn't trust Ray and was frightened of the brutal reputation he and his brothers had. But he knew one other thing. He'd seen the money that had started to flow through Detroit within days of Michigan's new Dry Law, and getting in on the ground floor was his family's only chance at a decent life. Joe made up his mind right there on that park bench.
"You've got yourself an errand boy, Mr. Bernstein," he said. Joe stuck out his hand.
"Mr. Bernstein," Ray laughed as he walked away, shaking his head.
Matka was distraught when Joe sat down with her in the kitchen and told her he was quitting school. But her spirit had weakened over the last eighteen months, and she conceded when he told her how much money he'd be bringing home. Frank had started school that fall. This was another financial hardship, as St. Josaphat could not sponsor two boys' tuition. Frank could take over Joe's scholarship, resulting in one less bill for the family. Matka had quit her job at the cigar factory to stay home with Stephan. She took in sewing, and with Joe's contribution the family would be making more than Ojciec had at the Ford factory.
A lot of Joe's time working for the Sugar House was just spent sitting around and waiting. He arrived in the mornings at eight and made coffee and ran over to the bakery for pastries or donuts and then waited for the men to arrive, usually around nine. To his surprise, Ray wasn't usually around; apparently Ray was only a rung or two above Joe's position as errand boy. The men who worked daily in the office were older, and Ray was definitely not their equal in the pecking order.
At first Joe's responsibilities were to fetch food for the men and occasionally deliver a note to a blind pig—that's what they called an illegal gambling den—in the area. The men told him to always take his wagon, even if he was just delivering a message. He got to know the streets of the city like the back of his hand, and the bosses were usually nice to him. Charles Leiter was a stout man who dressed to the nines. His sharp eyes never missed a thing. Henry Shorr was a quiet man who didn't make small talk. He didn't dress well and had little personality as far as Joe was concerned. In the morning, Henry would tell Joe what his errands were and then ignore him for the rest of the day.
"Morning, Joe. Run out and grab me a paper from the corner," Leiter said one morning as he walked into the office and hung his long overcoat and bowler hat on a hook near the door. Joe ran to the corner and back in two minutes. Leiter was just sitting down at his desk with a cup of coffee as he came bounding up the steps. "Pretty quick, Joe. But not as quick as the dame I was with last night." Charles Leiter and Henry Shorr headed the Oakland Sugar House operation.
Eventually, his tasks expanded to include collecting profits from the gambling houses. Leiter took him to the places they owned and introduced Joe to the men who ran them. Monday through Friday, he'd walk the streets, visiting taverns, dives, gambling dens, and storefronts that hid bootlegging operations, where he would collect the receipts—small envelopes, big envelopes, cash wrapped in brown paper, and rolls of money stuffed into socks, tin cans, or empty cigar boxes. He'd throw it into a false bottom he'd built into his wagon and cover it with an old burlap bag and several empty tin cans so it
appeared he was collecting metal to sell for scrap. The ruse was unnecessary, as the Sugar House Gang's fierce reputation protected young Joe like an invisible phalanx.
He still played ball on the weekends with the kids in the neighborhood and attended mass at St. Josaphat on Sunday mornings. He'd made his first reconciliation and communion the spring his father died, and he felt grown up when he knelt at the altar to receive communion. Sunday dinners were once again filled with the aroma of delicious foods and desserts thanks to Joe's generous paycheck. Matka began to smile more as she cooked and cared for him and his brothers.
Nearly a year passed this way until his bosses decided that Joe should be used in a better way than just collecting money and grabbing meals. One morning, Leiter called him into the office as he was making coffee in the break area.
"Morning, Joe. Thanks," he said as Joe handed him a cup of steaming coffee. "I can use this after the night I had last night. Shorr tried to drink me under the table at the club." Charles's eyes were bloodshot, and the smell of whiskey lightly emanated on his breath from the night before. "We came up with an idea though, so the hangover might be worth it." Joe looked around the room, trying to decide if Leiter wanted him to sit down for this conversation or just stand in front of the desk.
"The cops are getting tougher on us lately, and they're gonna pull a sting on our transport route from Ohio." Charles said, pointing to the wood chair behind Joe. Joe sat down. "Did you hear anything on the street about it?" Ohio had not passed the Temperance Law yet, and the gang had simply been driving the forty-five miles south and picking up liquor and driving it back to the city.
"Yeah, I heard something about it, but it seemed more talk than anything. Cops don't really care about booze smuggling, as far as I can see. I see them bellied up to the bar in full uniform when I'm out collecting." Joe tried to make his voice sound like the toughs that came and went at the Sugar House.
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