Chapter 17
A Brief History of the Bogdanovic Family
The Balkan Peninsula is the rugged lump of real estate wedged between Italy and Turkey. It’s bordered on the southwest by the Adriatic and Ionian seas, on the south by the Mediterranean Sea, and on the east by the Aegean Sea, the Bosporus and the Black Sea. It contains the modern countries of Slovenia, Greece and Bulgaria with a potpourri of other countries sandwiched in between.
During the last glaciation, the warming influence of the Mediterranean Sea blocked the advance of the permanent ice sheet far to the north of the Balkans, which left the region open to modern human habitation for the entire 200,000 years of our existence. However, the earliest human remains date from around 40,000 years ago. DNA evidence indicates these people are not related to modern Europeans, and it’s likely that line died out.
Placed at the intersection of Europe and Asia, the Balkans occupy a critical commercial and geopolitically strategic location. The people of the peninsula have been subject to invasion by every tribal people and civilization in the region, including the Persians, the Greeks, the Macedonians, the Romans and the Slavs.
The Slavic ancestors of the Bogdanovic family invaded the Balkans from Eastern Europe in the late 6th or early 7th century AD and settled in the Danube basin, an area that would eventually become part of Serbia. The Slavs harried the Byzantine Empire, and by the 9th century the they controlled almost the entire peninsula, including parts of Greece.
The Roman Pope, Leo III, anointed Charlemagne the Holy Roman Emperor in 800. The Eastern Patriarch in Antioch, Theodoretus, did not take this unilateral action kindly, and it sparked an argument that lasted 250 years. The dispute ended with the division of the two churches along the “Theodosian Line”. This is the same line along which the Roman Empire had split 650 years earlier. The settlement put the western third of the Balkans in Roman Catholic jurisdiction, and the eastern two-thirds in the Orthodox domain.
The year 800 was significant in Serbian history as well. It marked the emergence of the first independent Serbian state called Raška. However, the Bulgarian and Byzantine Empires attacked Raška within months of its formation, and in 1000 the Bulgarian Empire completed its annexation. This sets a pattern for independent Serbian states; they rise out of the Serbs’ drive for self-determination, and then are extinguished by the Bulgarian Empire, the Byzantine Empire, an Austrian/Hungarian Empire, the Ottoman Empire, or some other regional power.
In the 13th century Saint Sava, a monk and a royal son of the Serbian Principality, established the Serbian Orthodox Church as an independent member of the Eastern Orthodox Communion. Like the Greek and Russian Churches, the language used in its services is the vernacular, Serbian, as opposed to Latin, which was the liturgical language mandated by the Roman Church.
At the beginning of the 14th century a Turkish tribal leader, who is so obscure that his name and origins are in dispute, founded a dynastic house that would blossom into the Ottoman Empire. In the mid-15th century the Ottomans conquered the entire peninsula. During its 400-year history in the Balkans, the Ottoman empire did two things to muddy the ethnic waters in the Balkans:
1) The Ottoman Empire continuously occupied the southern half of the Adriatic coast, and converted the majority of Bosnian, Kosovar and Albanian Slavs to Islam.
2) The Serbs never accepted Ottoman rule and periodically rose up to expel them, sometimes with the help of the Venetians or Hungarians. But the Ottoman army would roll back into Serbia, scattering the rebellious Serbs like sanderlings running from waves on a beach. Many never returned to their places of origin, leaving a jetsam of Serb communities dotting the region. During one these Ottoman reinvasions, the Bogdanovic family and many of their relations fled to southern Hungary.
As the Ottoman Empire began to wane in the middle of the 19th century, three major “ethnic” groups vied for control in the Balkans: the Croats, Bosniaks, and Serbs.
What differentiated these three groups?
Not national borders: There are significant minorities of Serbs in Croatia and Bosnia; there are Bosniaks in Serbia and Croatia; there are Croatians in Bosnia and Serbia.
Not genetic heritage: Analysis of the X, Y and mitochondrial haplogroups indicates there are no significant genetic differences among the Slavic peoples in the region.
Not linguistic differences: There are differences in pronunciation and vocabulary in the spoken language of these three groups, but they are no greater than those between a Dallas debutante and a San Diego surfer dude.
The differences are cultural, traditional, and historical, and, unsurprisingly, religious. West of the “Theodosian Line” the Croats and Slovenians are historically Roman Catholic. East of the line the Serbs and Montenegrins are Serbian Orthodox. In the areas of continuous Ottoman occupation, the Bosniaks, Kosovar and Albanians are Muslim. The “ethnic cleansing” in the 1990s was merely the most recent expression of a long history of violence and brutal suppression, with each group taking its turn in committing atrocities against the other two.
Then in 1880 the Hungarian government initiated an aggressive program to replace the Serbian farmers in southern Hungary with native Magyar peasants. The government pressed the Serbs to go back to Serbia, but the situation in their homeland was unsettled, uncertain and sometimes chaotic. Most were reluctant to return.
In the summer of 1885, Borislav Bogdanovic, his wife, Tanya, and their four children, Ilarion (age 10), Nicolina (8), Gavrilo (6), and Goran (3), boarded a train in Pécs bound for Budapest. They had already traveled for two days by cart from their tiny village of Áta. Their trip had been funded by the Hungarian government supplemented by special rates from the railroads, the Cunard Steamship Lines, and by small loans from friends and relatives.
They went by train from Budapest to Prague, Frankfort, Cologne, and Ostend on the Belgian coast. They took a ferry to Dover, a train to London and another to Bristol, where they boarded the Cunard Lines steamship Etruria. After ten days of sitting on trains and in train stations, they collapsed into their third-class bunks and slept through the departure nine hours later.
They arrived at the Cunard dock in Manhattan on the morning of their sixth day at sea and took a train to the North River Ferry. They crossed the Hudson to the Exchange Place train station in Jersey City, where they boarded the Pennsylvania Railroad.
They arrived in Scranton almost eighteen days after leaving their home, and walked the last three miles to the Serb ghetto, where they were greeted by cousins, two uncles, one aunt, and a few neighbors from Áta. One uncle owned a run-down house with many haphazard additions, where sixteen other people lived. As promised, there was a hot meal and a single room waiting for them. The six of them lived in that room for over two years.
Borislav went to work in the Lackawanna Coal mine just days after their arrival. Each of the boys followed their father into the mine as teenagers. Their daughter, Nicolina, married at fifteen. Goran, who was over six feet tall at twelve, went to work with his father at fourteen. When he was seventeen, his family contracted for a bride with a matchmaker in Hungary. Mila Djokovic arrived in Scranton in the spring of 1898.
At least they thought she was Mila Djokovic.
The real Mila Djokovic had gotten a marriage proposal from a local boy and cold feet at the last moment. Her friend from church, Novena Mladenovic, took her place on the boat sailing out of Rijeka, Croatia.
Novena’s father owned a store in Pécs where he sold everything from food to furniture. She was the youngest of eight, and, whenever her mother was at her wits end, she encouraged Novena to go downstairs to the store. Novena took to floating between the apartment and the store; her parents often thought she was with the other parent when she was actually with neither. She usually sat in the corner of the store where there was a small rack of used books and a weekly periodical out of Zagreb.
The few literate customers thought it was so charming to see the four-year-old sitting with a book in her lap and were delighted when she asked them “what is this word, and what is this word?” In the evening her father gave her two older brothers lessons in reading, writing and sums to prepare them to take over the store. She sat in the corner pretending to play with a doll. With those bits of help, she taught herself to read.
The Mladenovic Emporium served Croatian, Serbian and Hungarian customers. About the time she was learning to read, she started to pay attention to the Hungarian customers. She assembled a stock request in Hungarian: “I want to learn your beautiful language. Please help.” Many regular Hungarian customers, proud of their language, were pleased spend a few minutes with the precocious little girl. By the age of seven she was fluent in her second language. At eight her father used her to translate customer requests; at ten she helped them on her own. Sometimes they gave her small tips for good service.
When she was eleven, a travel log about New England arrived at the store. There were descriptions of Boston, Hartford, Portsmouth, the mountains of Vermont and the small towns in western Massachusetts. She decided that one day she would go to America; from that moment, she thought of her tips as her “going to America money”. She started to ask every Hungarian customer if they spoke any English. Over the next five years she found four, including one who had lived in England. In the same way she learned Hungarian, she acquired a rudimentary knowledge of her third language.
She also made a little money as a letter writer, mostly for the women in the Serb community. At seventeen she handled the correspondence between the Djokovic and the Bogdanovic families, the local matchmaker and the Hungarian government. When the Djokovic family decided to back out of the arrangement, they gave Novena all the associated paperwork to be returned to the appropriate parties. Novena saw her chance.
While her “going to America money” was pitiful compared to the cost of the actual trip to America, it was more than enough for the trip to Rijeka. The week of her scheduled departure, the young women of her church were making a pilgrimage to visit the nuns at the Beočin Monastery over the border in Serbia. She asked her parents’ permission to join the pilgrimage; while this surprised her parents, they were also relieved. She was an odd child, and no one seemed interested in her potential as a bride. Perhaps, they thought, the solution was life as nun.
On the day of the pilgrimage, she told the chaperone that her mother was ill and she was needed at home. Then she took her bag, walked to the train station and bought a ticket for Zagreb and Rijeka. The day she boarded the ship, she posted a letter to her parents telling them she was on her way to America and she would write to them when she got there.
She never told her family the details of her location in America, and she never told the Bogdanovic family her true identity.
But her letters were full of miracles. She married, perfected her English, and moved with her husband’s family to Akron. She taught her three children English, enrolled them in school, and learned to read and write English from their school books. Two of her three children graduated from high school; one went to college and became a chemist.
Chapter 18
July 14, 1923
The day was hot and hazy. After the relative cool of the massive church, Antoine felt as if his arms and legs might liquify and run into the blazing upholstery of Thomas’ Buick. There were three gray-haired women in the back seat chatting incomprehensively. The boy of eight or nine seated next to Antoine eyed him with suspicion. Antoine, top button undone and tie askew, held his suit coat and hat in his lap.
“Look,” shouted Thomas over the furnace blast coming through the window, “we’re going to be talking to my Uncle Gavrilo and my brother Pavle. My Uncle Ilarion will be there, too, but that’s just for respect. He doesn’t speak much English, so Pavle will translate a little as we go. There will be a couple guys from Plant 2, but they won’t say much either. They’ll just be there to size you up.”
They drove through a neighborhood in southwest Akron known as Firestone Park; the houses were in various states of repair. They turned down an alley and into a dark, detached, single-car garage in the middle of the block. The garage had a beaten dirt floor; its cool, damp smell was refreshing. They exited through the garage door; the three ladies and the boy went into the backyard while Thomas and Antoine locked up the garage.
“A couple more things,” said Thomas. “You should call me Tomislav while we’re here.”
“Call you what?”
“Tomislav, my Serbian name.” He could see Antoine was confused. “If you call me Thomas it makes me look too American. I try to be very Serbian while I’m here. Understand?”
“I think so.” He tried the unfamiliar name. “Tomislav?”
“Yes, Tomislav. Also, do your best not to talk to any of the girls. Especially Lada.”
“Which one is Lada?”
“Never mind. If you don’t talk to any of them, you won’t talk to Lada.”
“So, I’m not good enough for the girls here?”
“As far as I’m concerned you are. But you’re not a Serb, you don’t go to the Serbian Church, so as far as most people here are concerned, you’re not. If you want our help, you’ll keep your hands to yourself.”
“Won’t be a problem. Most girls don’t like me much anyway.”
They walked through the gate leading from the alley to the long, narrow backyard. The back third was a flower garden, fading now in the heat of the summer. There were two large trees, an elm and an oak, providing shade closer to the house. All the houses on the block were fenced-in, but the two on either side of this house had gates through the fence to this yard. All three houses had screened-in back porches. The other two yards had large vegetable gardens. Antoine saw tomatoes and beans, maybe, and lots of other plants he didn’t recognize. There was an abundance of a sturdy plant with large, purple fruit.
The house had three stories, and, from what he could see, was a little ramshackle. It could have used a coat of paint, the gutters and down spouting needed attention, the concrete steps to the back porch were cracked and crumbling. There was a lot of activity in the kitchen which was just off the porch.
There were many chairs in the shade. Thomas and Antoine sat down. A woman stepped out onto the porch from the kitchen and spoke to Thomas.
“Would you like some lemonade or water?” He asked Antoine.
“Water, I think.”
A moment later she brought two glasses of water. She smiled at Thomas.
Antoine said, “Thank you.” She nodded and went back to the kitchen. Antoine turned to Thomas. “So, this is your mother’s house?”
“Yes. She and my uncles own these three.” He gestured to the houses on either side. “There are usually at least forty, sometimes fifty people living in them. Usually relatives. Five or six families, if you count my uncles, their wives, my brother, my sister, my mother and me as one family.”
“You live here?”
“Yes, my brother and I, and usually a cousin, share a room. With Serbs that counts as a private room.” Thomas smiled.
“Why don’t you get your own place?”
“That’s complicated.”
And none of my business, thought Antoine.
“What do your uncles do?”
“Uncle Gav works for Franklin Rubber as a sort of a troubleshooter. They make parts for Chevy. He’s been there a long time; he knows the machines. Uncle Ilarion works for my mother.”
“Your mother?”
“Yes. She has a fabric shop that caters to Serbs, Greeks and Russians. Fabrics and patterns from the old country. She also has a small section of food, canned mostly, also from the old country. Caviar, for example, and pistachio nuts. My uncle has connections in the U.S., Greece and Turkey. He keeps the food stocked. That part of the business does very well around Christmas and Easter.”
The backyards started to fill up. Two older men and a younger one came out of the house and walked down from the porch. Thomas greeted each one with a hug.
“This is my friend, Antoine Trombley. Antoine, this is my Uncle Ilarion.” The man was tall, a little over six feet, a ring of black hair around a bald head. His beard was long and iron gray. His eyes were as dark as midnight.
They shook hands. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bogdanovic.”
“Anton,” said Ilarion.
“It’s Antoine…”
Antoine interrupted Thomas, “Anton is fine, if it’s easier.”
Ilarion nodded, and repeated “Anton.”
Thomas shrugged. “My Uncle Gavrilo.” He was the same height as his brother, with a full head of hair and a well-trimmed beard, salt and pepper throughout.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bogdanovic.”
“Too much Mr. Bogdanovic,” said Gavrilo, his accent heavy but understandable. “You call me Uncle Gav, eh?”
Antoine bowed his head over their clasped hands. “Yes, of course, my pleasure.”
“And this is my brother, Pavle.” Pavle was huge, well over six feet with broad shoulders, long arms and enormous hands that enveloped Antoine’s.
“Nice to meet you, Pavle.”
“And you” said Pavle with almost no accent, then with a wry smile, “Anton.”
Antoine returned his smile.
“Sit, sit,” said Gavrilo waving his hand. They sat. “Anton, what you think of church?”
“It was beautiful.”
Gavrilo leaned in. “What beautiful?”
“Well, the church was certainly beautiful. I’ve never seen paintings like that before.”
Thomas grimaced. Pavle spoke quietly to Ilarion, who frowned. Gavrilo said, “Not our church.”
“Pardon?” said Antoine.
“Not our church. Is Russian. We pay Russian to use.”
“Oh, sorry, I had no idea.”
“Is fine, easy mistake. We build our own church in God’s time.”
“Ah. But, you know, I thought the service was beautiful, too. Everybody just sang through the whole thing. The harmonies were so wonderful and different. I could feel it in my chest. But there was no organ and no hymnals.”
Gavrilo turned to Thomas and they spoke back and forth briefly. Thomas said, “My uncle wants to know what’s a hymnal.”
“It’s a book with the music and words of the hymns.”
Gavrilo shook his head. “Don’t need book. Mostly same song every week. We don’t have organ or music, um.” Gavrilo turned to Thomas and said a word.
Thomas said, “Instrument.”
“Ah! We don’t have music instrument in church. Instrument for love song, for human things. Happy. Sad. In church we sing. We talk to God. We thank him for life. We tell him we try to be good. Yes?”
“Yes, I see.”
“You go church?”
“Yes, with my family. We go to the Presbyterian church on East Market.”
“Nice building,” said Gavrilo. Pavle smirked. “Is different, no?”
“Yes, very different. We sing a couple of songs; the choir sings a couple of songs. But mostly the minister talks. I don’t think your priest, you call him a ‘priest’, right?”
“Da.”
“I think your priest just sang. I was expecting a sermon, but I guess he didn’t give one.”
“Was sermon. Priest sometime talk, sometime sing.”
“What did he sing?”
“He sing, ‘If you member this church and do good, you go heaven. You member other church or do bad, you go hell.’ What your priest say?”
Antoine thought about it for a moment. “Pretty much the same thing, I guess.”
A woman came out of the kitchen and down the steps with a tray that held a clear, unlabeled bottle and seven small glasses. She placed it on a small table next to Gavrilo; he poured out five glasses and passed them out.
“What’s this?” asked Antoine.
“slivovitz,” said Gavrilo.
“Plum brandy,” said Thomas.
“But I don’t drink alcohol.”
“Just try. Is good.”
“Drink,” said Pavle.
“Drink,” said Ilarion.
Antoine looked at Thomas; he nodded.
“Ziveli!” said Gavrilo.
“Ziveli!” cried everybody but Antoine as they downed their slivovitz. Antoine took a sip and choked. Everybody laughed.
Pavle slapped him on the back and said, “Drink up!”
“Drink, drink,” said Gavrilo and Ilarion.
Antoine closed his eyes and took the slivovitz like bad-tasting medicine. His throat burned, his eyes watered. They cheered.
Gavrilo poured another round, but Thomas put his hand over Antoine’s glass and shook his head. Gavrilo shrugged his assent.
Two large young men, more wide than tall, walked up to the group. Gavrilo introduced them to Antoine as Josif and Kuzman Ljubičić. They each accepted a glass of slivovitz.
“Now, Anton,” said Gavrilo, “Tomislav say you want favor.”
Antoine looked at Thomas; Thomas nodded encouragingly.
“Yes, well, as you may know, Tomislav and I work together at Bainey Rubber. Mr. Bainey has sold out, and he has arranged a job for me at Goodyear.”
“What job?”
“Second shift cleanup crew at Plant 2.”
“When start?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow.”
“Ah, Josif, you and Kuzman work second shift plant 2, no?”
Josif nodded.
Gavrilo turned back to Antoine. “How can help?”
“Tomislav thinks I need some help learning the ropes, and maybe some guidance.”
Gavrilo turned to Thomas, said something in Serbian that ended in “learning ropes”. Thomas replied in Serbian.
“Ah. Is anything else?”
“Well, Tomislav seems to think I might need…” he looked at Thomas.
“Protection,” said Thomas.
“Protection from?” asked Gavrilo.
“Other workers, I guess. I’m not sure, really,” replied Antoine.
Gavrilo looked at the young men that had joined them. “Josif?”
“You’re asking for this, Gospodin Bogdanovic?” responded Josif.
“Da.”
Josif nodded. “We’ll pass the word and walk him in the first week.” Gavrilo spoke to them in Serbian. Josif looked at Antoine. “He asked me if I have any advice. Do you want my advice?”
“Of course.”
“Cleanup crew’s okay to start out. but they’re always the first to be laid off. You should try to move to one of the more skilled jobs. You should ask this guy you work for to arrange that.”
“What job?”
“Some of the jobs take a lot of strength. Little guys usually end up as cutters.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s different cutting jobs. One is cleaning up green tires before they go into the mold.”
Antoine nodded.
“Got more?’ asked Gavrilo.
“Nah. We’ll give him the poop as he goes along. Meet us at the gate at quarter to four; we’ll get you squared away.”
“I’ll be there.”
Gavrilo looked at Antoine “Is all?” Antoine looked at Thomas who made no response.
“Yes. Thank you, ah, Uncle Gav.”
“Now, who wants drink?”
A few minutes later, Thomas tapped Antoine on the shoulder. “My mother wants to talk to you,” he said quietly.
They got up and Antoine followed him into the house. They went through the kitchen to the front of house and up the stairs to the second floor. Thomas knocked on the door at the top of the stairs. They heard an indistinct voice; Thomas opened the door.
“Mama, this is Antoine Trombley. Antoine, my mother.” Thomas looked at Antoine. “See you in a few minutes.”
“Come in, Antoine,” she said.
The room was a combination bedroom/office. There was a small single bed, a wardrobe and a dresser, but also a desk piled with papers, bookshelves with English and foreign language titles, and three tall, four-drawer filing cabinets. The room was dim, the only illumination coming from sunlight leaking the through the heavily draped window behind the desk. There were no religious artifacts, no ornamentation of any kind. The room reeked of tobacco.
A woman sat behind the desk, smoking a cigarette. She turned the desk, and Antoine was surprised at how attractive she was. High cheekbones, demure chin, meticulously groomed eyebrows, slightly slanted eyes, short hair styled to accentuate the exotic face. And somehow there was resemblance to Thomas.
“Antoine, please sit down.” The voice was as exotic as the face. A contralto, gravel from heavy tobacco use, each syllable crisply formed, and delightfully imbued with the undertone of her native language.
Antoine sat and said, “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bogdanovic.”
“And you, Antoine.” She took a last drag on her cigarette and crushed it out in an overflowing ashtray to her left. “I don’t say this to everyone, but I would prefer to not be called by that name.”
“Bogdanovic?”
She nodded.
“But…”
“Why not Bogdanovic?” Antoine nodded. “Tomislav has never told you anything about his father.” It was not a question. Antoine shook his head. “He’s been gone for more than ten years.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not what you think. Do you know who Archduke Ferdinand was?
“The guy that was assassinated, that started the World War?”
“Yes. It was a Serb that shot him. When Austria-Hungary invaded Serbia, thousands of American Serbs volunteered to join the Serbian Army. Most were young, unmarried and had been born in this country, but Goran, my husband, was none of those things. I don’t think I ever saw him so happy as the day he walked out the door. Toward the end of the war he was reported missing in action. But I think he just decided to stay in Serbia. Plenty of young widows to console.”
“Oh…” Antoine couldn’t of think anything else to say.
She waved a hand. “Ancient history. We have the store, the houses, bread on the table. We have family.” She selected a cigarette from the pack on the desk. “Perhaps you could call me Mila.”
“Mila?”
“My given name. Or does that feel too… disrespectful.”
“A little.”
“Let me think. Mmmm, Trombley. That’s French, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s take our cue from that. How about Madame Mila, eh?”
“Madame Mila? Yes, that would be alright.”
She struck a match, lit her cigarette, waved the match out and put it in the ash tray. “Are your parents immigrants?”
“No. The Trombleys have been in North America for almost three hundred years.”
“Really?”
“Yes. They were French Protestants”
“And you’re still Protestants?”
“Yes, my family is.”
“So, you’re not particularly devout?”
“No, I’m not. What about you? I didn’t see you at church today.”
She smiled to herself, as if he had unknowingly played a clever pass at hand of cards. “God rested on the seventh day. I try to follow his example.” She smiled broadly at Antoine. “What does your father do?”
“He’s a carpenter.”
“And you are going to work in a rubber factory?”
“Not for too long, I hope.”
“Siblings?”
“I have a brother and a sister.”
“How old?”
“My brother’s fifteen; my sister’s five.”
“Such a young sister?”
“Marie is my half-sister, but she and her mother are my family as much my father and brother.”
“And your birth mother? What happened to her?”
“She died in ’18.”
“Influenza?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now it’s my turn to be sorry.”
Antoine nodded. “I still miss her.”
“As you should.” She took a lungful of smoke and blew it out. “Is your family political?”
“Not particularly. My father only voted in the last presidential election because La Follette is a Huguenot like us. He said he didn’t see any difference between Coolidge and Davis.” In 1924 La Follette had started the Conference for Progressive Political Action and ran for president on a left-wing platform.
“Ah. And you?”
“I was too young.”
“But had you been old enough?”
“La Follette.”
“Because he was French Protestant?”
“No, I just liked him. It seemed like he cared about people like me. Like us.”
“It didn’t bother you that the Socialist Party endorsed him?”
“No.”
She emitted an ambiguous grunt, and flicked a long, gray ember into the ash tray. “Tomislav tells me you like cars.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you own a car?
“Part of one. Just a jalopy my friend and I race.”
“That’s right! You went to Indianapolis with Tomislav.”
“Yes. It was wonderful. The best three days of my life. I’m not sure how I’ll ever repay him.”
“That’s not how he tells it.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Antoine’s expression remained guileless.
She nodded to herself. “Well, I just wanted a few minutes of your time. I like to meet Tomislav’s friends when I can. But the food must be ready by now; why don’t we go down and see.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Yes!”
They found that dinner was still a few minutes from being ready, and Antoine followed Mila into the backyard. She joined a group of older people which included her brothers-in-law. Antoine saw Thomas standing at the fence staring into the yard next door. He walked out to join him.
“Hi,” said Antoine.
“Hello,” said Thomas, his focus unwavering.
Antoine followed Thomas’ gaze. There was circle of eight or ten girls, teens to early twenties, seated on a large blanket. They appeared to be playing a word game. There was a man in a suit, late twenties or early thirties, sweating in a chair a few steps away, and two more men in suits lounging in the background.
Antoine’s eye was drawn to a very beautiful girl, perhaps a year or two younger than himself. She was wearing a flowered print dress; all the others wore solid colors. Her resemblance to Mila, slanted eyes, high cheekbones, lustrous hair, was unmistakable. She said something and laughed. The other girls laughed; the man in the chair smiled indulgently.
“The girl in the dress. She’s Lada?”
“Yes.”
“She’s your sister.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you warned me off.”
“No. I would much prefer you to Frankie.”
“Frankie?”
“Frankie Dragovic,” he said, nodding toward the man in the chair. “He’s the guy that got us into that club in Indianapolis.”
“He looks prosperous.”
“Oh, he’s got money. And he’s a Serb. Other than that, I can’t think of a single thing to recommend him.”
“What’s not to like?”
“Don’t be so dense, Antoine. Who has connections to booze halls?”
“You mean he’s a gangster?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Really? Wow. What’s he doing here?”
“He’s family, sort of. His stepfather was my father’s cousin. And he’s trying to court Lada, without much success so far as we can tell.”
Just then Antoine realized that Lada seemed to be smiling at him, and their eyes met. Antoine turned his body away from Lada toward Thomas. “That’s, um, colorful. Having a gangster in the family.”
Thomas shook his head. “In Serbia; men like Frankie were not just tolerated; they were revered. They were the only protection common people had from the open corruption and brutality of the Turks.” Thomas shrugged. “Of course, there’s corruption in America, too, but it’s conducted in secret, in the shadows. Rumor has it that Frankie’s stepfather was muscle for various, ah, organizations.
“When Prohibition came along, legitimate people said, ‘This is a stupid law; I’m not following this law.’ Suddenly there’s a black market where small-time hoods could get rich. Now Frankie’s out of the shadows and semi-legitimate. But that doesn’t mean I want my sister to marry him or my friends to get caught in the crossfire.”
“Oh.”
Thomas looked toward his mother’s house and said, “Looks like dinner is ready. I hope you’re hungry.”
They strolled to the porch and joined the food line. When they got to the table Thomas told Antoine about each dish. “This time of year, all the vegetables come from the garden. The ladies do lots of canning, so even in the winter we eat a lot of our own food. The main dishes are moussaka and goulash. Moussaka is a layered dish; this is my aunt’s recipe which has both eggplant and potato, minced lamb, topped with a custard made from yogurt. Goulash is a spicy beef dish the family picked up in Hungary. There are also a few leftover stuffed grape leaves. Then there are three vegetable casseroles: bean, green bean, and tomatoes with peppers. That one might have chicken in it. Then there’s salad: tomatoes, cucumber, onions, olives, feta cheese and olive oil. The bread was baked this morning.”
Lada, Frankie, his goons and the other girls came in behind them. Lada tripped and clumsily bumped into Antoine.
“Pardon me,” she said.
He glanced at her and said, “Don’t mention it,” and turned back to the food.
Antoine took a little of everything and followed Thomas into the yard. The chairs were all taken, so they ate standing up. A middle-aged woman walked by, looked at Antoine and said something to Thomas. He laughed.
“What did she say?” asked Antoine.
“Well, it was something like ‘No wonder your friend is so small. He eats like a mouse.’ But it’s funnier in Serbian. Also, my cousin Maja has funny way of saying things.”
“I didn’t think I should take large portions in case I didn’t like something. It’s okay if I go back for seconds, isn’t it?”
“Nothing would please Maja more.”
With the meal over, the adults congregated in Mila’s back yard, and children played noisily in the other two yards, boys to the east and girls to the west. Mila walked up to where Thomas and Antoine were leaning against the porch.
“Did you get enough to eat?” she asked them smiling.
“Yes, mama.”
“It was wonderful, Madame Mila. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You are welcome anytime, Antoine.”
“That’s kind of you. But, you know, I’d really like to contribute in some way. I was wondering if I could help with the dishes.”
“No, no need for that. You’re our guest.”
“I know. And you have been so welcoming. But I am left out of almost every conversation, which is unavoidable, but it makes me feel like a stranger. If I could wash dishes, I wouldn’t feel so much like an outsider.”
She looked at him and through him. He could tell she was making some kind of calculation. “There are a lot of dishes.”
Antoine shrugged, what difference did that make.
“Just a moment.” She went and talked to Ilarion and the woman seated next to him.
“What made you suggest that?” asked Thomas.
“Common practice in my family.”
“Not here. Men work in the fields; women work in the house.”
“Who’s the woman with your uncle?”
“His wife, Aunt Jasna.” Mila went up to the porch and into the kitchen. “You might get your wish, hard as that is to believe.”
“Why is that hard to believe?”
“Because the girls do the cleanup. It’s like inviting a fox into the henhouse.”
Mila came back. “You wash dishes with the first shift. When the second shift comes in, you leave the kitchen, yes?”
Antoine bowed his head. “Of course.” Antoine smiled. “Thank you.” Mila took him into the kitchen. There were five young teenaged girls, thirteen or fourteen years old. They did not talk to him or look at him. There was also a very old lady sitting out of the way at the kitchen table.
He drew water into the sink and added detergent. One girl brought items to be washed to from the table on the porch and from around the kitchen. One rinsed, two dried and one put the items way. The girl brought him knives, cutting boards, cooking and serving utensils, then cutlery, then plates and dishes. The girls chattered in Serbian and laughed. Antoine felt a good portion of the humor was at his expense, especially when they looked at him out of the corners of their eyes and the chaperone laughed.
He emptied and refilled the sink. The second shift, comprised of six older teens and young women including Lada, showed up. He had gotten through about two thirds of the dishes, which left some dishes, glassware, crockery, pots and pans.
Antoine dried his wrinkled hands and went in search of a bathroom, which he found on the second floor. He relived himself of several glasses of water and lemonade and one small glass of slivovitz. He washed his hands, and stepped back out into the hall. Lada was waiting.
“You’re Tom’s friend.”
“And you’re Tomislav’s sister.”
“Tomislav!” She laughed. “He told you to call him that.” He nodded. “As if what you say matters to anybody here.”
“Seems to me everybody has been very nice.”
She snorted. “You’re a stranac; the bar is low.”
“It was nice meeting you, Lada,” he said and made to walk past her. She put out a hand to stop him and her fingers brushed his chest. It surprised him, and the look of shock on her face delighted him.
“You won’t even look at me,” she said.
“I was warned.”
“Because some bad man is chasing after me?”
“That’s part of it.”
“What’s the other part?”
“Your mother and uncles have some money; your brother is a college graduate and has a professional job. And even if I weren’t just a lowly janitor, I would not be good enough for the Serbian princess.” He bowed with a suggestion of a flourish and bended knee.
She stamped her foot. “I’m so tired of people telling me what I am. I’m not a princess,” she insisted.
“You’re pretty enough.” Then he blushed and walked to the stairs.
“Antoine.” He stopped. “I’m having lunch with friends at Kay’s on Wednesday. It’s on Union off Market.”
“I know where it is.”
“You should join us.”
He turned to look at her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Still, you should come.”
He turned his head and looked down the stairs. Just before he took the first step down, he said, “I’ll think about it.”
Antoine said good night to Thomas and got out of the car. He swung his suitcoat over his shoulder and walked around to the back of the house in the dark. The light was still on over the sink, so he knew that Sarah was still up. He unlocked the door and stepped into the kitchen. She sat at table in the dim light with a cup of coffee.
“Antoine.”
“Maman.”
“How was your Sunday with the heathens?” Her smile told him she was at least partially kidding.
“It was fine.” His tone was non-committal.
“They’re going to help you. At the plant?”
“So it seems.”
“Many people?”
“Yeah, quite a crowd. Reminded me of family gatherings in Syracuse. Older people mostly speaking a language I don’t understand, and the younger people mostly speaking English.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“Thomas’ family mostly. His mother, uncles, brother.”
“About?”
“Just getting-to-know-you things. Like, how did you like church, what does your father do. Things like that.”
“They didn’t try to convert you?”
“No. The service is in Serbian, so it wouldn’t make much sense.”
She took a sip of her coffee. “And that’s all?”
“Pretty much. Big gatherings wear me out; I’m going to bed.”
“Goodnight, Antoine.”
He closed the door to his room and got undressed. As he hung up his suit in the wardrobe, he realized there something in the right-hand pocket of his suitcoat. It was a slim pamphlet folded in half to fit in the pocket. He unfolded it and read the title – A Discussion of ‘Capital’ by Karl Marx.
Chapter 19
Friday May 1, 1970
Two young men met after dark at the intersection of East School and South Lincoln Streets. One stood on the southwest corner, the other on the northeast. They watched for traffic as the minutes ticked by; a lone car passed them going east on School and turned south on Morris Road. They turned their backs as it went by.
They waited another five minutes, then walked a half block north on Lincoln, and cut through a vacant lot to a large apartment complex that faced Morris Road. They climbed three flights of stairs in building D and walked down the hall to apartment 322.
In response to their knock they heard the door handle and deadbolt unlock. The door opened to the limit of the chain and somebody peered through the crack. The door closed, the chain slid back, and a slender young woman with straight blond hair let them in. Without a word she went to the sofa and picked up an open Glamour Magazine.
They walked down the hall to the second bedroom, knocked and entered. The small room had a single bed, a desk/bookshelf unit and a folding card table with four chairs. A beefy man with wire rim glasses and thin, shoulder-length hair sat in a folding chair facing the door. A slight Asian man sat to his right, and an angular, lanky black man sat in the desk chair. He sported a large afro and a worn, black leather jacket, black chinos and black high-top Converse sneakers. The newcomers greeted the other men; Stephen Bogdanovic sat down at the card table opposite the man facing the door; Nathan Goldstein took the remaining seat facing the Asian man.
“Alright, let’s get this show on the road,” said the man facing the door. He wrote notes on a yellow legal pad. “Attending this meeting of the Executive Council of the Kent State Chapter of the Students for a Democratic Society are: myself, Brody Taylor, President. Stephen Bogdanovic, Vice President. Allen Wong, Treasurer. Nathan Goldstein, Operations. And Mustafa Jones, our liaison to the Black Students Organization.”
Stephen was tall and broad, had short, dark hair, a well-trimmed mustache and three days growth of beard. Nathan, a little older than the others, had a red, kinky Jewfro.
Brody flipped back through his notes and said, “Now, as to old business…”
Stephen interrupted him. “I move we table old business and move on to new business.”
“Second,” said Nathan.
“That’s out of order,” said Allen.
“There’s just the four of us,” said Brody. “I think we can dispense with Roberts Rules for the moment.” He looked at Stephen. “What’s on your mind, Stephen?”
“A response to the Cambodian bombing campaign.”
“There was a protest on campus today. I don’t remember seeing you there.”
“I had an important errand out of town.” He looked at Nathan, then back at Brody. “How many showed up at the rally?”
Brody shrugged. “Two hundred maybe.”
“Not good enough. Not nearly good enough!”
“What would you suggest?”
“I would suggest burning down the ROTC building!”
There was a stony silence. Then Brody said, “The SDS is non-violent.”
“I’m not suggesting the SDS burn down the ROTC building. I am suggesting it will burn down tomorrow night.”
“You’re not expecting any manpower from us?”
Nathan shook his head. “There are people coming from out of town.”
“Let me guess,” said Brody. “Ann Arbor.”
“No comment,” said Nathan.
Brody scratched his patchy beard. “So, you guys are Weathermen.”
“Not me,” said Stephen. Nathan said nothing.
“But we are talking about a Weathermen operation?” Neither answered. “Why’re you telling us. Isn’t it a breach of security?”
Stephen said, “We’re here to suggest that tomorrow night you guys should be someplace public, someplace with lots of non SDS folks. I don’t want the chapter or the brothers,” he nodded toward Mustafa, “to catch any heat over this. As far as security goes, if the cops are waiting for us, the three of you will be at the top of my suspect list.”
“Yeah, but if the pigs catch you two, the chapter will still be blamed.”
“I won’t be there,” said Nathan. “I’ll be at a bar mitzvah in Akron.”
Brody looked at Stephen. Stephen said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I may never get a chance like this again. If cops catch me, I’ll tell them I’m the only one with any balls in this group and the rest you guys are pussies.” Then he put on a fair impression of Porky Pig, “A p-p-pack of p-p-pusillanimous p-p-pussycats.”
Stephen laughed, Mustafa smirked, Brody grinned.
“So that’s it? You just wanted to warn us to stay out of the way.”
“Yeah, pretty much.” Stephen turned to Mustafa. “We cool?”
“Burning down the ROTC building? That’s righteous, man. Sure you don’t need some help?”
“It’s covered.”
“Then we’re cool.”
“That sort of blows the crap out of the meeting,” said Brody looking at Stephen. “You want a beer?”
“No, man. We got shit to do.” Stephen stood up and turned toward the door. Nathan followed him.
“Stephen,” said Brody, “can I talk to you for a minute?”
Stephen pursed his lips. “Sure.”
“Privately.”
“Okay.”
Brody took him by the arm, pulled him to bathroom and closed the door. He stood looking at Stephen a little bug-eyed.
“What?” said Stephen.
“Are you a Soviet agent?”
“What the fuck? You know damn well I’m not. I’m not even a socialist; my nose barely makes it into SDS tent. I only joined because I thought you guys were serious about the war.”
“If you participate in this attack, I am going to have to ask you to leave the group.”
“Ask away buddy boy.”
“Stephen, please don’t do this. It’s reckless and stupid. Somebody could get hurt.”
“You mean like the innocent women and children in Cambodia and Laos? Man, I hate this fucking war; America is better than this. The war is killing and maiming a generation of young men on both sides. If there are Soviet agents in the peace movement, and there probably are, it’s not because the Soviets want to stop the war. Oh, hell, no. What’s the war costing them? A few Kalashnikovs, some hand grenades, a couple of rocket launchers. Their goal is to divide us and sap our will to resist. I’m sick of sitting around listening to you jibber jabber. It’s time to do something.” Stephen took a breath. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“You kicking me out?”
“Not yet. I’m hoping you’ll reconsider.”
“That’s what I thought. You know what, Brody? You really are a pussy.”
Stephen yanked open the bathroom door and stalked out of the apartment with Nathan following in his vapor trail.
Chapter 20
July 17, 1926
Antoine walked into Kay’s Luncheonette just before noon. The lunch counter to the left had fifteen stools, mostly occupied; opposite the counter were eight booths along the outside wall. The large windows above the booths were hinged at the top and propped open. Two large ceiling fans lazily moved the air in the small restaurant. A short order cooker worked the grill and fryers; two waitresses served customers at the counter and booths.
Lada waved to him from the last booth. Antoine couldn’t help but smile as he slid into the booth across from her. She was wearing a pale-yellow frock with white, broderie anglaise puffed sleeves and matching collar. The color contrasted with her Mediterranean coloring, dark eyes and hair. She smelled faintly of soap and toilet water.
“Hello,” he said.
“Glad you could make it,” She replied, a sly grin on her face.
“Where are your friends?”
“My? …Oh, yes.” The grin blossomed into full smile. “I guess they must be late.”
He snorted.
“Are you so disappointed to have me to yourself?”
He blinked and said blandly, “No.”
The waitress came to their table. She was thin and almost as pale as her waitress uniform. Her graying hair was held back behind her ears by a tortoiseshell headband; a drop of perspiration clung to end of her long, narrow nose.
“You folks ready to order?”
“You go ahead,” said Antoine picking up the menu.
“I’ll have a grilled swiss cheese sandwich, fries and a coke.” She looked at Antoine. “We can share the fries. They’re yummy.”
“Okay. Um, let’s see. I’ll have two hotdogs with mustard and relish and a chocolate milkshake. And water.”
“We’ll have that right out, hun.”
There was an awkward silence. Why am I here? Antoine asked himself.
“What’s the rest of your day like?” she asked him.
“I’m going to work.”
“You mean back to work.”
“No, my work day starts at eleven. I took time off to be here.”
“For little ol’ me. I’m flattered.”
“I only have ten more days at that job. The company’s shutting down, and, to be honest, there’s not much to do this week.”
“Oh, that’s right. Did you enjoy the dinner?”
“It was alright. It wasn’t exactly a social call.”
“Did you get what you came for, then?”
“I hope so. I don’t really know. It wasn’t my idea.”
“It was Tom’s idea?”
“Yes.”
“Why is Tom so interested in you?”
“Is that why we’re here? So you can ask questions about Tom?
“No, of course not. I was making conversation.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“I thought that, well, you seemed different.”
“You mean I’m not Serbian.”
“Yes! No. That is, not exactly. It’s just that I’d never met a man who washed dishes before.”
“We’re here because I washed dishes?”
“I guess it does sound silly. It’s just that when my mother let you help in the kitchen, I felt, for just a second, like maybe…”
“Like maybe what?”
“Like maybe things could change. Look, my mother left Hungary by herself. She crossed the Mediterranean Sea and Atlantic Ocean by herself. She traveled from New York to Pennsylvania by herself. I want to be able to do things like that. But my mother is just as bad as everybody else. She says she did all that so her children wouldn’t have to. But that’s not true; I can see it in her eyes when she tells the story. I see it every day when we’re working in the shop. She did all that because she wanted to. For herself.”
The waitress brought their drinks. Antoine sucked hard on the straw to get little sip of his shake. “Mmmm. That’s good.”
“Do you know that I am going to vote in the next Presidential election? And that’s exciting, but I don’t want it to be the most exciting thing I ever do.”
“What’s so exciting about that?”
“The women’s vote will change everything.”
“Maybe. If all women were like you.”
“Oh, pooh. You mark my words, in fifty years there will be a woman President.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why not?”
“Women are too soft.”
“Women are a lot tougher than you think,” she said, her eyes flashing.
Antoine laughed. “Could be. I have to admit: I don’t know much about women.”
The waitress arrived with their food and put their dishes in front of them.
“You want some fries?” she asked.
“Sure.” She lifted her plate and shoved some onto his.
“That enough?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She took a couple of bites of her sandwich and looked up. One of the hot dogs was gone. “Did you even chew that hot dog.”
“Of course.” He chomped a couple of French fries. “Wow, good fries!”
“The fries are why I come here.” She ate a fry and smiled.
“So, you want a man who will let you go out and have adventures.”
“Not let me.”
“Then, what?”
“I want somebody different, somebody exciting, somebody a little… dangerous.”
“Sounds like Frankie Drogovic to me.”
“Frankie’s not a little dangerous. He’s mad dog crazy.”
“I have something that feels crazy. Not very exciting maybe, but definitely crazy.”
“You do?”
He took the pamphlet out of his back pocket, unfolded it and placed it on the table.
“What’s that?”
“You’ve heard of Vladimir Lenin?” he asked quietly.
“The Russian Bolshevik?”
“Keep your voice down,” Antoine said quietly. “Yes.” He gestured at the pamphlet. “It’s about of a book by a German named Marx. Lots of Lenin’s ideas come from this book and from other things Marx wrote.”
“You’re a communist?”
“What? No. In fact, I was wondering if you put this in my suit coat pocket.”
“Me?”
“Somebody did. I found it there when I got home from your place on Sunday.”
“Really? I can’t imagine.”
He opened it to the back of the pamphlet and written on the inside of the back cover in a beautiful, flowing, exotic hand was a comment. It is immoral to turn another man’s work into a commodity. That’s the point of the Thirteenth Amendment.
She gasped.
“What?” he asked.
She got up came around to sit on his side of the booth. “That’s my mother’s hand writing,” she said quietly into his ear.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I’m sure. What’s the Thirteenth Amendment?”
“I had to looked it up. It’s the amendment against slavery.”
“Oh!”
“What do you think it means? That your mother gave me a Communist pamphlet.”
“I don’t know; it’s shocking!”
“Where do you think she got it?”
“Beats me. I don’t know what to think. What would you think if your mother was handing out Communist pamphlets?”
“I’d be totally confused.”
“Then you know how I feel.”
“I’m not sure that’s true. The only book I’ve ever seen my mother read is the Bible. But your mother has fifty times more books in her room than we have in our entire house. I’m pretty sure your mother knows more about politics and economics than mine does.”
“What were you doing in my mother’s room?” This surprised Lada almost as much as the pamphlet.
“She wanted to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“She asked about my family. How many siblings I have, what my father does for a living. Things like that.”
“That’s it? There was nothing else? Nothing odd?”
“Well,” he thought for a moment. “She asked if my family is political. She wanted to know who I’d have voted for in the presidential election.”
“What did you tell her?”
“La Follette.”
“The socialist?”
“He’s not a socialist. He’s a progressive.”
“What’s the difference?”
“To be honest, I’m not sure.”
She reached over and pulled her plate over to their side of table. “I’ll tell you one thing, Antoine Trombley, you’re not boring. I don’t know if I’ve ever had a more perplexing conversation in my life.” She took a bite of her sandwich.
“You work in your mother’s shop?” She nodded while chewing her food. “Do any suspicious people come in to see her?”
“What’s suspicious? After today my mother is the most suspicious person I know. For all I know, she gives me the day off so she can meet with her spy ring.”
“What do you do in the shop?”
“I help customers, you know, pick out fabric and patterns. My mother and I make dresses for people sometimes.”
“Dresses?”
“Yes, for special occasions, mostly. Christmas, Easter, birthdays, christenings. I made this dress. Do you like it?’
“Really? I would never have guessed it was homemade.”
“It’s not homemade; it’s tailormade. And you didn’t answer my question. Do you like it?”
“I do; you look wonderful.”
“Thank you so much.” She put her nose in the air. “A girl shouldn’t have to fish for compliments?”
“I told you, I don’t know anything about women.” He took a bite of his remaining hot dog, chewed briefly and swallowed. “That dress you wore on Sunday; did you make that?”
“Of course! I’ve made most my clothes since I was eleven.”
“Your mother owns her own shop, tailor-makes clothes, travels around the world by herself, and hands out communist propaganda.”
“Maybe. Like you said, she has a lot of books in her room. Maybe she just had it and somebody took it or maybe she loaned it to somebody.”
“Like who?’
“I don’t know. A lot people have been in that house over the years.” She ate the last of her sandwich and a couple fries. “Sorry, but I have an appointment.” She stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in her dress. “Next time I won’t be so rushed.”
“Next time?”
“Two weeks from today. My next day off.”
“Isn’t this completely against the rules? Especially with a, what did you call me? A strano?”
“A stranac. That’s what makes it so much fun. Will you come? Please?”
He smiled, “I’ll think about it.”
She laughed and kissed him on the cheek.
Late in the afternoon Antoine stepped out onto the loading dock. Thomas was there smoking a cigarette.
“Oh, hi,” said Antoine.
“Come on out. It’s quite pleasant for July.”
Antoine sniffed the air and said, “Wind must be blowing the other way.”
“No reason for busting our asses now, eh?”
“Guess not.”
“There will be more than enough work next week, packing things up.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to miss it?”
“I’m sure I will.”
Thomas took a drag on his cigarette. Antoine took the pamphlet out of his pocket and handed to Thomas.
“Ah, yes,” he said, unsurprised.
“Did you put that in my pocket?”
“No, I did not. I didn’t know about it until Monday.”
“Your family are Marxists?”
“Good Lord, no. Socialists, labor unionists, but no violent revolutionists that I’m aware of.”
“Then why give it to me?”
“Did you read it?”
“I tried, but it just didn’t make much sense.”
“I know what you mean.” He dropped his cigarette on the dock and ground it out with sole of his shoe. “It’s mostly an analysis of why workers will always get the shitty end of the stick.”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“And the Marxist solution: a total redistribution of wealth and power. Not very realistic. Some of my family think the solution is collective bargaining and the right to strike. A union with teeth.”
“I’m not sure how realistic that is either.”
Thomas scraped his cigarette butt off the dock with the edge of shoe. “A family member asked me to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
“Somebody from a union organization, but not from the plant, will approach you. I don’t know what they have in mind, but, if I were you, I’d be careful.”
“You know me.”
“Do I?” He looked at the pamphlet. “Do you mind if I keep this? I’d like to return it to the owner. Pretty sure it has some sentimental value.”
“Sure. Why not.”
“Just about time for me to head out. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, see you tomorrow.”
Chapter 21
Tuesday March 15 through
Friday March 18, 1927
“Here you go, Bandit,” said Joey De Luca as he delivered a green tire to Antoine’s work area. The word “green” did not refer to the color of the tire; the tire was black from an infusion of carbon black. “Green” in this context meant that tire had not gone through the curing process, otherwise known as vulcanization.
Green tires were built by a skilled tire maker who had assembled the tire from parts manufactured by others. The beads, which held the tire in place on the wheel, were steel cords imbedded in the rims of sidewalls. The sidewalls were solid rubber. The tread body was built up from layers of rubber and cotton fabric. The fabric improved flexibility and puncture resistance.
Antoine found two minor defects during his inspection. At this point in the process the rubber was still gummy, and Antoine was able to quickly repair the defects with bits of green rubber which were at hand in the inspection station. The tire makers liked him because he rarely rejected their fabrications and the foremen liked him because the tires he inspected and repaired invariably passed final inspection and testing.
He placed the tire on a small cart and rolled it to the next available curing pit. Antoine and the pitman carefully lifted the tire into the pit. The machine, a squat cylinder with a clamshell top, was still hot from cooking the last tire. Once the new tire was correctly situated horizontally in the pit, the pitman closed and secured the lid. The machine molded the tire into its final shape, including the tread pattern, and heated it to over 200 degrees Fahrenheit. This fused the various chemicals mixed into the rubber, such as sulfur, benzene and aniline, along with the fabric belts, into a single sturdy unit.
The environment in the plant was dreadful. It was hot, wet, deafeningly loud, dusty, and poorly ventilated. Many of the chemicals used to accelerate vulcanization or improve rubber quality were toxic. Benzene is now known to be a carcinogen; high concentrations of aniline interfered with absorption of oxygen by the red blood cells. And the pace of work was brutal and relentless.
The first few weeks on the job Antoine went home dirty, exhausted, and demoralized. His head ached, his eyes were red and irritated, his exposed skin had rashes and was starting to peel. He pulled half-inch long chunks of black, dried mucus out of his nose.
When he got home from work, he’d go to his room stinking of the plant, let his work clothes drop to floor and fall into bed. That did not last long; Sarah would not tolerate the effect this had on her spotless home. She insisted he take off his work clothes in the tool shed at the back of the house, don a heavy robe and go directly to the bath.
Over the first two months on the job, he put together a protective outfit. He had three sets of bibbed dungarees and long-sleeved, cotton shirts. He rotated them daily and Sarah laundered then regularly. He purchased better work gloves than the company provided; a pair of motorcycle goggles to protect his eyes; a couple of dozen kerchiefs which he dampened and tied over his nose and mouth. Sarah sowed a flap of heavy cotton fabric to the back of a carpenter’s cap which protected his scalp and the skin on the back of his neck.
It was no wonder Antoine had acquired the nickname “Bandit”. At first it was a term of derision. Most of the men wore only bibbed dungarees, boots and work gloves because of the heat. They found his getup ludicrous. But the turnover at the plant ran as high as 20 percent per month. In short order the men who had christened him were gone, and the only thing left was the nickname.
With his skin, eyes and lungs protected from the carbon black dust, that left three hazards to deal with: The toxic chemicals, the pace of work and the heat. Josif Ljubičić taught him to recognize each chemical smell. Aniline, for example, smelled like rotten fish. “When the smell is heavy, get out,” he said. “If anybody asks, just say you’re feeling sick.”
His body toughened up and the pace of work became less of an issue, but it was still exhausting. He studied each of the jobs in the plant and decided that the green tire inspector was the least demanding. He lobbied the foreman, and in early December they let him give it a try. He made sure he got damn good at it. He and his father built the tiny, rugged cart he used to roll the green tires to the curing pit. When he showed the foreman that the platform did less damage to a green tire than carrying it, he let Antoine use it.
His protective outfit made the heat worse, of course. But he was small and retained less heat than larger men; plus, he had reduced his work load as a green tire inspector. He brought a canteen to work and drank from it frequently to replace the liquids he lost to perspiration. But in the end he had to endure the heat, just like everybody else.
The third rest period whistle blew; there was an hour in the middle of the shift when workers took a turn at a twenty-minute break. Antoine picked up his lunch pail and hurried out into the March night.
The temperature dropped nearly sixty degrees from inside to outside the plant; six large lights were attached to the factory wall; each one formed misty cones that illuminated small groups of men settling in to devour a hurried meal. Antoine unhooked the straps of his bib to take full advantage of the cooling then sat down on the low wall and dug into this lunch pail, ravenous as usual. He ate alone, enjoying the few moments of rest, relative quiet and solitude.
Then a voice called from the factory entrance, “Five minutes.” Antoine felt a pleasant little shiver from his cold, damp clothing, which he knew would not last ten minutes once he was back inside. Men all around him stood and shuffled back toward the entrance, and Antoine started to pack up his lunch pail. A folded piece of paper landed in his lap; he looked up to see who had dropped it, but there was no way to tell in the semi-darkness. He unfolded the paper.
“IT WOULD BE TO YOUR GREAT ADVANTAGE TO GO TO O’BRIEN’S ON NORTH SUMMIT STREET AT 2 PM ON THURSDAY. ASK FOR BILLY.”
The hand written note was printed in all capital letters. Antoine grimaced, refolded the note and went back to work.
After the shift change whistle blew, Antoine walked out of the plant with the mass of his workmates. The Northern Ohio Traction & Light Company put on special limited street car runs for the midnight shift change; Antoine managed to get a seat and he snoozed on each of the three legs back to his neighborhood. By 12:40 the trolley dropped him six blocks from his home.
As he stumbled down Arlington Street, two men jumped out of the shadows and dragged him down the alley between Wilkins Hardware and the A&P. When Antoine called for help, one of the men punched him expertly in the solar plexus.
Two more men waited for them in the darkness behind the grocery store. His captors stood Antoine on his feet as he gasped for breath, keeping a firm hold on his arms. One of the men briefly shined a flashlight in his face.
“Are you sure this is the lad?” ask the second man in an Irish accent.
“It’s him,” said the first.
“Alright, me bucko, we’re here to deliver a message, and this is it – you’re to stop seeing a certain young lady.”
“Young lady?”
“You’ve been seen with her at Kay’s. That stops now”
“You mean Lada?”
The speaker nodded to the other man. He gave Antoine a one-two to the ribs. Antoine groaned and sagged in the hold of the two thugs.
“We don’t bandy ladies’ names in back alleys,” said the Irish voice.
A blow out of nowhere jolted the left side his face. When his vision cleared, he was lying on the ground, and the dark shape of the second man stood over him.
“Next time we won’t be so gentle.”
Antoine poked his head in the door of Kay’s, caught Lada’s eye in the back booth, and beckoned to her to join him. She got up out of the booth, and Antoine stepped back out onto the sidewalk.
She gasped when she saw his face. “What happened to you?”
“What’s it look like?”
“You were in a fight?”
“Four against one’s not much of fight.”
“Who were they?”
“I don’t know; it was dark.”
“Did they rob you?”
“No.”
“What did they want?”
“They wanted me to stop seeing you.”
“What? But why?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Oh, Antoine,” she said reaching up to his face.
He put up his hands. “Don’t.”
“Frankie did this, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. All I know is we should stop.”
“Don’t say that. Won’t you miss me?”
“What do you think?”
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are; of course, we are. But we’re not… I mean, you don’t have any, um, romantic feelings for me, do you? Be honest.”
She took a breath. “No,” she admitted reluctantly. “There’s something missing that way.”
“Who’ll believe that we’re just friends?”
“Maybe you should go to the police.”
“What good would that do? Frankie’s goons beat up guys every day, and what have the police done about it?” She didn’t answer. “Exactly.”
“Why didn’t he just tell my mother? Or my brother? Or my uncles?”
“It’s easier to put pressure on me.”
“We can’t give up that easily. I’m going to talk to Frankie.”
“He’ll probably send his bully boys around to do a more thorough job.”
“I swear to God, if he hurts you again, I will never speak to Frankie Dragovic again. Please don’t give up. Please.”
HeF squinted at the bright blue sky. “If there’s reason to believe they won’t beat me up again, I’ll be back.”
“Deal!” she said and put out her hand. He looked around, and, seeing no one, shook her hand. His silly grin almost made her laugh.
Friday was Antoine’s library day. He took an earlier street car to the Carnage Building on East Market, where he read the latest editions of magazines such as Automobile Digest and Popular Mechanics. Occasionally, when he and Dick were having a problem with their racecar, he would pore over the Ford Model T repair manuals. The library had a set of all the manuals released by Ford and they were in high demand. They were kept in the reference section and could not be checked out.
Between 1908 and 1927 Ford sold more than fifteen million Model Ts worldwide, which made it the best-selling car of its day. The Model T was inexpensive to manufacture and purchase, easy to repair and modify, and incredibly durable.
Ford had announced that in May the company would close all its plants, which were located in the US, Europe and South America, for at least four months. The company intended to retool for the purpose of producing a brand-new automobile – the Model A. Antoine had seen drawings and specifications for the new car, and they made his heart beat faster.
The Model A had a sleek look and would come in four styles priced from four-hundred to fourteen-hundred dollars. It had twice the horsepower of the Model T and had a top speed of sixty-five miles an hour. They even came in a variety of colors – black, gray, green and red.
Antoine thought Henry Ford must be very brave to risk the entire company on such a bold move. He longed to work in a Ford factory, but the closest plant was in Detroit and he just couldn’t imagine moving that far away from his family.
He was excited to find a new edition of Automobile Digest in the magazine rack. He took it to his favorite reading spot, a quiet carrel in the back of the stacks. He took out a small notebook and pencil and began to read.
Minutes later he became aware of a large man leaning against the carrel. His hair and mustache were red, and he wore a brown bowler and a brown plaid suit and vest that had seen better days.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Trombley,” he said quietly with a hint of an Irish accent. The accent shook Antoine until he realized it was not the voice from Tuesday night. Still, there was something familiar about the man.
“Good afternoon,” replied Antoine.
“I’ve been wanting to have a friendly convo with you. To that end, I asked a friend to deliver an invitation, which you chose to ignore.”
“You’re Billy?”
“That’s not m’name, but it is the code name we used in the note.”
“Who are you, then?”
“Please, Mr. Trombley, this is not the place. If you don’t wish to meet in m’office, m’car is parked nearby. That at least will be private.”
Antoine sighed.
“Just listen to m’proposal. If it’s not to your likin’, you won’t hear from me again. You have m’word on it.”
Antoine stood and held up the magazine. “I have to put this back in the rack.”
“When you come out of the library, I will be at the corner down the street to left. Foller me at a distance until I get into the car.”
Antoine followed him up the side street for three blocks and turned right into a tree lined residential street. Two hundred feet up the street Antoine saw him climb into the driver’s seat of a late model Chevrolet Superior. Antoine opened the passenger door and slid in.
The man handed him a card; it read:
Clarence Morrison
Discreet Private Inquiries
“This is you?” asked Antoine.
He nodded.
“You’re a private cop?’
“In part. Tell me, how’d you get that shiner?”
“An accident at the plant.”
“Really? Didn’t know they were using brass knuckles in the plant these days.”
Antoine put his hand to his face. “Oh, I thought it was just a fist.”
“No, whoever hit you was a professional. He hit you in just the right spot with just right amount of force; maximum pain, minimum damage. Not many fellers in Akron are that good. Antoine… May I call you ‘Antoine’?”
“And shall I call you ‘Clarence’?”
“Lance. M’friends call me Lance.”
“So, we’re friends, then?”
“I hope so, Antoine. I certainly hope so.” He smiled. “So, tell me what happened.”
“Not much to tell. Some guys jumped me.”
“Why?”
“They… they objected to… something I was doing.”
“The feller who did the talkin’, was he an Irishman?”
Antoine drew his head back and blinked. “Yes. How did you know that?”
“And did they object to you keeping time with a certain young female at a downtown lunch counter?”
“If you know all this, why are asking me?” demanded Antoine.
“Just verifying a suspicion.” He pointed at the card in Antoine’s hand. “Discreet private inquires. We’ve been follering you, off and on, for a little over two weeks.”
“Me?”
“M’operative saw you go into Kay’s. He noticed a couple of known associates of a certain bootlegger lurkin’ about. When you left, one follered her, the other follered you. When I saw your face, I guessed the rest.”
“Oh. Is that why you wanted to talk to me? This certain bootlegger?”
“Not at all, Mr. Antoine Trombley, I have a proposition for you. To put it bluntly, one of m’clients wants to develop sources of information inside the rubber plants.”
“Who’s your client?”
“That is confidential. However, I will say that, in m’opinion, they represent the true interests of the working people in the plants.”
“A union.”
“Not a specific union. Let’s just say union interests. As I was saying, we’re looking to develop sources of information inside the plants.”
“But I don’t know anything special.”
“That’s true. At the moment.”
“At the moment?”
“Yes, we’d like you to run for the Industrial Assembly.”
“What?”
The Industrial Assembly was the brainchild of Paul Litchfield, the President of Goodyear. Like all the industrialists of the era, Litchfield was rabidly anti-union; he developed a strategy to prevent the unions from getting a foothold in his company. Part of that strategy was the Industrial Assembly which was Goodyear’s company “union”. It was modeled after the US Congress with nine members in the Senate and seventeen in the House. The members were elected by the workers, but all its decisions were subject to veto by Litchfield.
“We’ve been looking for somebody like you. Somebody relatively new, but who looked like they could hang in for a while. Somebody intelligent. Somebody tight-lipped. An unknown quantity, who we could help get elected. Somebody who was sympathetic to our cause.”
“But the Assembly’s a joke.”
“Have you said that to anybody else?”
“No.”
“Good. Keep it to yourself.” Morrison nodded slowly. “You’re right, of course. For the workers it is a joke. A cruel one. But for the company it has many uses; one of which is to gather information about the workers. We want to turn that around and use it to gather information about the company.”
“What kind of information?”
“Honestly, we don’t know, but it’s one of the few places where workers meet face to face with company bigwigs.”
Antoine shook his head. “I’m not a politician. I don’t know the first thing about getting elected to the Assembly. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“We understand that. You’ll have help from inside the plant, and guidance from outside. For example, we want you to run as a pro-company candidate.”
“I don’t think I can do that.” Antoine was thinking about his connections to the Bogdanovic family and the Ljubičić brothers.
“It’s necessary, Antoine. Once you’re in, we want the company brass to be receptive. But you’ll have a hook, an issue, that will draw the union folks in.”
“What’s that?”
Lance pointed to the bag on Antoine’s lap. “Your gear shows you’re concerned about the working conditions. That’s your hook, that’ll be why you’re running. But your approach will always be to work with company.”
“I see.” Antoine frowned and rubbed his chin. “You said you had a proposal. What are you offering?”
“Well, there are advantages to just being in the Assembly. The prestige, for example.” Antoine’s grunt told Morrison how Antoine felt about that. He smiled broadly. “You’re man after m’own heart, Antoine. How about this then. Goodyear will pay your going rate for the time you spend on Assembly business. There is also some protection from layoffs. It’s not a guarantee, mind you.”
“Anything else?”
“We’ll pay you, too. What do you make a month?”
“About eighty dollars, more or less.”
“Starting next month, we’ll pay you ten percent of your salary, or eight dollars every month. Once you start your campaign, we’ll pay you fifteen percent. When you’re elected to the house, we’ll pay you twenty percent. But the real goal is the Senate. You make it that far? It’ll be forty percent per month.”
“Of whatever m’salary is at the time?”
“Yes, including the Assembly bump.”
“Anything else?”
Lance put his hands on the steering wheel and stared out the windshield. “There is one other thing I could offer you.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re not courting that girl, are you.”
“How do you know that?”
“You get together every other week and in broad daylight. Not much of a romance, if you ask me.” Morrison laughed. “Besides, what would she be doing with the likes of you?”
“I ask myself that question all the time.”
Lance nodded. “Okay, I think I can help you with your bootlegger.”
“How?”
“We have a couple of connections with the man and his organization. We’ll convince him of the wisdom of leaving you be.”
“You can do that?”
“Do we have a deal?”
“I’ll think about it.”
“How much time do you need?”
“A couple of days.”
“Monday, then?” Antoine nodded. “Whatever you decide, this is strictly between us. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re in, meet me here on Monday at 2:00. Don’t bother showing up if you’re not.”