Sugar House (9780991192519) Read online

  The Sugar House

  A Novel

  Jean Scheffler

  Copyright 2013 by Jean Scheffler

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of historical fiction; the appearance of historical figures is therefore inevitable. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

  First Printing, 2013

  Cover Designed by Karrie Ross

  ISBN 978-0-9911925-0-2

  Published by: Jean Scheffler

  www.jeanscheffler.com

  Ebook Formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  For my Grandfather who inspired this tale and taught me that anything is possible with a little hard work and a sense of humor.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Chapter Thirty Three

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Chapter Thirty Five

  Chapter Thirty Six

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  Chapter Thirty Eight

  Chapter Thirty Nine

  Epilogue

  Endnotes

  Prologue

  Detroit. To many modern persons the name implies poverty, decay, corruption and violence. To lovers of the city's rich history the name means much more. I grew up in the suburbs of this unique city, listening to the stories of the exciting place it had been before my birth. Many of the tellers had lived there during the time when it was a bustling, exhilarating place... "The New York of the Midwest" it had been called. From the back seat of my parent's brown Pontiac Phoenix, this little blonde haired girl would look up the enormous skyscrapers and even then, I could see the beauty of the architecture and thoughtful care that had gone into the storefronts, parks and homes. Much has been written about why Detroit crumbled and how to rejuvenate the once great town. Both are difficult topics with no simple answers that I or most are able to answer.

  To be truthful, my interest in the city's history began with a love for the romantic feel of the 1920's; a party atmosphere where men were gentlemen and women were ladies and dressed the part. The beautiful cars, glittering movie palaces, the doormen and valets. Even the double-dealing gangster dashing down the brick paved streets had a glamorous feel. But as I watched old movies, read as much as I could find on the topic and begged anyone over the age of eighty to share their stories, I learned much more.

  And I remembered back to a time when I would wake early in my Grandfather's cottage on a little lake in Northern Michigan and crawl onto his lap where he was rocking by the stone fireplace. There in the quiet of the morning before my sister or my seven girl cousins would awake he would share with me his stories of growing up in Detroit. These were not the romantic stories of the black and white movies that I loved to watch. His story was one of poverty (although he didn't tell it that way), and street smarts, and neighborhood unity, and hard work with some occasional mischievous fun thrown in. A world where a third grade education didn't define a man's worth and bending the law to try to survive was not looked down upon.

  When I became a gerontology nurse at the young age of twenty-one I was lucky enough to again learn from this country's greatest generation. Any down time I had during a shift I would search out a patient who wanted to talk for a little while. On those late evenings after the last medications were passed, as I'd sit at the bedside of a World War Vet or hold the hand of a ninety year old housewife I'd feel a warmth in the dark ward as they quietly shared the story of their lives. I learned not only historical facts but the true feelings, emotions and struggles their lives had held.

  As I entered my thirties and the decline of Detroit became the main focus of the evening news, my mind wandered over all the accumulated history I had had the privilege to learn. True, I had never lived during the time when Detroit was the jewel of the Midwest but I could definitely imagine it as it had been. And when I found during conversations with coworkers, friends and strangers of my generation that most were unfamiliar with the history of our great city I was saddened. I wanted to record it as I saw it for the grandchildren of the citizens who created it and for the great grandchildren who will hopefully see it rise again.

  Confucius says, "Study the past if you would define the future." I honestly believe this to be true. I hope by my telling this small story based loosely on a few facts from my grandfather's life I can contribute to the next generation's commitment to keep Detroit and its history alive. For it is their ancestors who built, worked, played, slept, cried, laughed and loved there also.

  Chapter One

  1915

  Pospiesz sie, pospiesz sie! (Hurry, Hurry!) thought Joe as he rushed down the tree-lined street. His father was expecting him to bring his dinner, and if he did not hurry Ojciec (Father) would not have time to eat the kielbasa sandwich Matka (Mother) had prepared. He'd been watching his two-year-old brother, Frank, while Matka gossiped at the market. Now he needed to run to avoid a reprimand from Ojciec. His small frame weaved quickly down the wooden sidewalk between neighbors, strangers and children. Watching for cars and horses, he crossed the street and headed north. He could see the steeple of St. Josaphat's looming two hundred feet above the houses, and he was anxious to arrive at the construction site.

  Strangers he passed on the busy street would not have noticed the small boy. He looked like all the Polish boys in the neighborhood. His clothes were fairly clean—short brown pants with stockings, a small brown overcoat and a flat hat pulled over his shaggy blond hair. But anyone who stopped him to ask for directions or to say dzień dobry (Good Morning) would probably have blinked a few times and stared. Under his cap were eyes the bright azure of the sky on the Fourth of July, the sparkling sapphire of the water surrounding Belle Isle Park, the aqua of a little girl's traditional costume on a saint's day and the powder blue of a morning sunrise when the day holds all possibilities.

  Small shoulders squared, chest out, he walked confidently with his chin held high. His stature was average for an eight-year-old, and he didn't stand out at school when it came to marks. But he was strangely self-assured. His aunt whispered that he was a stary dusza-an old soul. However, steadfastness and the will to fight ran thick through his blood. A century of poverty and oppression in the old country had fused a thick rope of determination into his genetic code. When he was a small child sitting on his mother's lap, she'd told him she believed he had a special fate and was destined for great things in this new country.
Joe was special.

  When he greeted an adult at the five-and-dime or at the market he looked the person straight in the eye, reached out his hand, smiled and addressed the person as an equal. For a child so small to behave this way could have been off-putting, but Joe seemed to put people at ease with this tactic. Men would smile and shake his hand; women would lean down to further inspect his beautiful eyes and compliment his manners. Even older children would listen to his stories and let him lead their games.

  As he neared the construction site, the noise of the city grew much larger. St. Josaphat's was the newest Polish church the archdiocese had commissioned to be built. There were two other large Polish churches within two miles, yet the population of Polish Catholics had become so large in Detroit that the Church was continually erecting more houses of worship. The original wooden chapel had been rebuilt into a massive cathedral only fifteen years prior, but the school was updated only this year. The school was almost complete, and Joe and his classmates would soon move from the old school.

  Crossing the red brick street, Joe stepped onto the site and searched for his father. He was careful, as he knew that bricks falling from above were a common occurrence. The men joked that a brick that landed on a Polish man's head would bounce off. But Joe knew this was only a barb that helped alleviate their fear of injury. He'd recently heard of a neighbor who was killed when a bucket of mortar fell from a second story. His widow and five children now depended on the church's and the neighborhood's charity to survive.

  Jumping over a mud puddle, he made his way closer to the new school. His father volunteered his labor at the site on Saturdays. The Jopolowski family was proud to belong to St. Josaphat's, as it was one of the larger churches in the area. The Felician sisters who taught in the school were highly educated. Joe's parents revered the teaching nuns; Joe, however, did not feel the same adoration. The sisters insisted on calling him Joseph despite the fact that his birth certificate clearly stated his name was Joe Jopolowski. He'd even brought it to school and shown it to Sister Mary Monica to no avail. She had responded curtly, "Joe is not a given name," and there was no further discussion.

  Joe slowed down to say hello to Mrs. Stanislewski, who was carrying her husband's dinner in a small woven basket in the crook of her arm. The hem of her long, dark dress brushed the dirty sidewalk as she leaned down to kiss his flushed cheek. She stood up and grabbed the edge of her embroidered apron and patted her face. Joe complimented the bright red babushka that donned her head.

  "Oh this?" she said in Polish, patting the pretty cloth. "It was a gift from my grandmother. She gave it to me the day I left for America. She passed last year. I was thinking of her this morning as I got dressed, so I pulled it out of my drawer. Of course, I hadn't seen her in ten years; but I can still see her standing at her cottage door waving goodbye like it was yesterday." Joe nodded and politely said goodbye as he moved on. He heard stories like Mrs. Stanislewski's every day. Many of the parishioners hailed from the same area of Poland as Joe's family. It seemed that every adult he knew had left someone behind in the old country.

  The noise and commotion of the construction site had a celebratory feeling. Men shouted out in Polish and laughed and joked with their friends. Some whistled folk songs while they worked. Some waved to Joe and called out greetings. "Dzień dobry maly czlowiek! (Good Morning, little man" Older men teased. "Pozno? Ha! To s? na to! (Late? Ha! You are in for it!) Scurrying over the piles of bricks and wood, Joe quickly found his father.

  At five foot eight, Mikołaj Jopolowski was not a large man, nor was he demonstrative with his affections. He loved his young son, but he had left the raising of him mostly to his wife, Blanca, until recently. Growing up in a poor village, Mikołaj had scrimped to save enough money to make the passage to America. He'd arrived in New York ten years ago and had made his way to Calumet, in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, to work in the copper mines. Nine months ago, Mikołaj and his two brothers had heard of Henry Ford's five-dollar-a-day jobs and had brought their families to Detroit to work in the automobile plants. As an unskilled workman, Mikołaj was making almost twice what he'd been paid to labor in the cold, dark mines.

  There was a price to pay for such a high wage, however. Joe's father had many scars from droplets of molten iron searing his skin as he poured the red-hot metal into molds for engine blocks. Blanca told Joe that before coming home at night from work, Ojciec would pull the balls of iron out of his skin. Mikołaj was lucky in one small respect: he worked with his two brothers, Alexy and Feliks. Working together gave the men confidence that they could avoid the kinds of fatal accidents that occurred in the factory.

  Nearing the front steps of the new school, Joe saw his father laying bricks for the entryway.

  Joe shouted hello to his father above the noise of the hammering and sawing. "Cześć, Ojciec! (Hi, Father)"

  Ojciec turned to him and smiled. "A little late, Joe, are we?"

  "Yes sir. Matka took longer shopping than expected."

  Ojciec laughed under his dark handlebar mustache. "Gossiping again at the market, I am sure. Well, what can I expect for supper when I get home this evening, for all the time spent in getting it? Maybe golabki (stuffed cabbage) with rice and mushrooms, or perhaps ox tongue in gray sauce?"

  "No, Ojciec. We're having cheese pierogi with fried onions and cucumber salad."

  "Ahh… always a favorite dish of mine when your mother makes it."

  Tossing a quarter into the air, he said "Find a milk truck and buy some fresh sour cream for the pierogi. Let's surprise Matka and your little brother. Small extravagances make life worth living, right Joe?"

  "Yes! Oh yes, Ojciec!" Joe said, smiling ear to ear. Walking away he wondered the reason for his father's good mood. During the week, he came home tired and worn out, staying awake only to eat supper and then retiring before Joe went to sleep. Ojciec was usually more relaxed on Saturdays, but to splurge on sour cream was extraordinary. Joe walked to the sidewalk and began to search for a milkman delivering his wares.

  Avoiding two horse drawn carriages, a Model T and a Liberty-Brush runabout, he crossed the street. Heading south toward the busier part of the city, he allowed himself to sightsee a little and enjoy the revelry of a sunny Saturday. The windows and doors of the houses lining the street were propped open on this mid-September day. Cabbage, sauerkraut and onion aromas drifted onto the sidewalk as the women in the neighborhood prepared supper for their families. Searching but finding no sign of a milkman, Joe continued toward the Irish district, a few blocks south.

  Rounding the corner, he saw two red-haired boys playing with a Ouija board on the front porch of their home. He crossed to the other side of the brick street, not paying attention to the road; he almost stepped in horse dung. His priest, Father Gatowski, had just preached about the evils of the Ouija board last week at Mass.

  "Ouija boards are the Devil's toy! God has spelled it out for us in the Holy Book." Father Gatowski had shouted from his pulpit. " 'There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, an enchanter, or a witch, or a charmer, or a consulter with familiar spirits, or a wizard, or a necromancer. For all that do these things are an abomination unto the LORD: and because these abominations the LORD thy God doth drive them out from before thee. Thou shalt be perfect with the LORD thy God.' Deuteronomy 18:10-13."

  The priest had slammed the bible shut on the pulpit waving and pointing his finger at the congregation as he continued. "God has forewarned you in his most righteous way of knowing what is to come. Listen to his teachings! These modern toys being sold to our young souls in the false title of entertainment are a straight path to Hell! Do not allow your young children to surround themselves with the evil spirits of this world."

  Of course, Joe being a young boy, he had not paid attention to the sermon until the priest yelled "Hell!"; and even then he hadn't understood what the priest was speaking about until his
mother sat him down in the kitchen after Mass. She told him that if he ever played with a Ouija board that his soul would burn in Hell for eternity.

  Joe hastened away from the sinful game and stepped onto the opposite sidewalk, colliding into a young woman with a parasol. She started to fall forward, unable to keep her balance thanks to her hobble skirt. Joe snapped out his hand at the last moment and grabbed her by the elbow to help right her.

  "Are ye not an imp and angel in one crib?'" said the pretty lady in a lilting Irish accent, once she regained her balance.

  Puzzled by this response, Joe stared into her eyes and quietly said in his best English, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I should've been paying attention to what was ahead of me and not behind."

  Laughing, the young woman responded by straightening Joe's cap and said, "Now if that were the advice we all followed through life, I know, by God, all us folks down here on Earth would have an easier time of it, to be sure." Fixing her large light pink hat upon her head, confident that her wardrobe was returned to order, she turned her attention fully to Joe. "My! What an amazing color your eyes are. They remind me of the sea by my village in Ireland, they do."

  "Thank you, ma'am. And again I am sorry to have bumped into you." Joe turned to go.

  "No use worrying yourself, young lad. Tis only a stepmother would blame you. Now before you rush off again and injure some other innocent lady, perhaps you should tell me where ya' were headed in such a hurry."

  "Well… . I was…" Joe started.

  "Out with it, wee one. I am just trying to head ya' in the right direction, I am. Obviously you are not in your own neighborhood." She smiled kindly down at Joe as she twirled her parasol behind her shoulder.

  His eyes dimmed slightly at her comment, as he had been feeling confident that he'd perfected his American accent during the last school year. "Well, I was looking for the milkman, but I had to run from the other side of the street to get away from a board game."