Sugar House (9780991192519) (17 page)

Joe sat down to eat the picnic lunch with his
family.

"Don't worry, son," Ojciec said. "That was a
great bunt you had. Tall Paul had no idea you were planning that!
You should have seen the surprised look on his face."

"Thanks, Ojciec." Joe took the ham sandwich
Matka offered him and sat on the blanket.

"You are all flushed again, Joe," Matka
commented, her eyes wrinkled in worry.

"Leave him, Blanca. He just got done playing
a game. If he wasn't sweaty he wouldn't be trying," his father
admonished.

Father Gatowski walked through the picnickers
visiting and laughing. He accepted sandwiches and cookies from his
parishioners as he mingled among them. Reaching Joe's blanket, he
greeted the Jopolowski clan heartily.

"Great day for a ball game, huh,
Mikołaj?"

"Yes, Father. Can't wait to get out there
myself. First time for me."

"If you play half as smart as your son does,
I'm sure your team will come out on top."

"Well, I don't know if I'll do that well, but
Joe has been giving me some pointers. Um… Father?"

"Yes Mikołaj?"

"Is the American anthem going to be sung
before the game?"

"Well, I hadn't thought about it. Guess it
would be a good idea. I'll have to find someone to sing it for
us."

"I could," Mikołaj responded quietly.

"You could,Mikołaj? You know the anthem?"

"Yes, Father. Joe had Sister Mary Monica
write down all the verses and he brought it home for me to
learn."

"All the verses? I was only aware of the one!
How many are there?"

"Four in total, Father. But I'll only sing
the first one—the one everyone knows."

"Sounds terrific, Mikołaj! I'll call you up
after I say a prayer before the start of the game."

Joe was surprised at Ojciec's bravery in
volunteering to sing the national anthem, but Matka was not. "Your
father has a lovely voice, Joe. He used to sing in the boys' choir
in church in Jastarnia.

As Father Gatowski walked away from their
picnic area, Joe looked up at his father and said, "Ojciec, do you
want me to go over the words of the anthem with you before the
game?"

"No thanks, Joe. I have been singing it every
morning on my way to work since you taught it to me."

Joe took another bite of his sandwich and
thought about what his father had said. He knew his father greatly
valued his heritage and missed his home country every day. But he
must be very proud and thankful for his adopted country to want to
learn the national anthem so badly.

Joe wondered if all immigrants felt like his
father. His father had recently been notified by Henry Ford's
administrative offices that he had to begin English classes twice a
week in the evenings at the plant. Mr. Ford was requiring all his
employees to learn English or they would lose their position. Some
men at the plant felt Henry Ford didn't have the right to force
them to assimilate into American culture; but Joe's father, like
most others, did not feel that way. He felt he should learn the
language of a country who had welcomed him and his family. He felt
he could adopt many of the American customs and still keep his
Polish identity.

Father Gatowski walked onto the pitcher's
mound and began to thank all the parishioners for their hard work
in building and donating to the new school. He said a short prayer
thanking God for the talent and contributions of all the good
people of St. Josaphat's and a prayer for the future of the great
cathedral, that generations to come would learn the good news of
the Lord within its holy walls. Then he called Mikołaj over to the
mound to sing the national anthem.

Ojciec walked slowly over to Father Gatowski.
Joe watched as he shook the priest's hand and turned to face the
crowd. Ojciec stood tall. He removed his hat and placed it over his
heart. Then he began to sing. The first two notes were so quiet
that Joe worried his father would whisper the song and everyone
would ridicule him. But his father stopped suddenly and held up his
hand for attention. Clearing his throat, he smiled and began again,
this time in a loud, beautiful baritone voice. His voice thundered
musically above the crowd. They stopped their picnicking to look at
where the melodious sound was coming from.

Sister Mary Monica stood up from her picnic
blanket and joined Joe's father with her soprano voice. A few
others scrambled to their feet and joined in. Joe looked around the
park and saw boys and girls from his class tentatively stand up and
join in. Soon, most of the spectators had taken to their feet,
uniting their voices in a show of loyalty to their new country. Joe
stood up, and his mother followed her sons lead. Removing his cap,
he sang the last few lines of the song. Matka's light blue eyes
glittered proudly as she listend to her husband finish with a
magnificent crescendo.

The bystanders all clapped, whooped, and
hollered when the song was over. A couple of men walked over to
Mikołaj and clapped him on the back. Father Gatowski shook his hand
again, turned to the crowd, and yelled, "Play ball!"

The men took to the field and everyone sat
down to enjoy the afternoon's entertainment. The sun had warmed the
air, making for a gorgeous fall day. November could bring snow or
sun in Michigan, and the parishioners thanked God for providing a
warm day for their festival. Joe's father jogged to third base, and
the opposing team's batter walked to home plate. Joe took his seat
on the blanket and settled in to watch the game.

As the batter tried a couple practice swings,
a coughing spell came over Joe. Holding his hands over his mouth as
the nuns had taught him he doubled over gasping for breath. Matka
kneeled at his side, softly encouraging him to try and relax his
muscles and rubbing his back. Finally, he regained his composure
and the fit subsided. Red-faced and sweating, he lay back on the
blanket to grab some deep breaths.

"You do have a fever, Joe!" Matka exclaimed,
placing her cool hand on his forehead.

"No, I'm fine, Matka. Just a little cough. I
just need a drink of wat—" another coughing spell overtaking his
sentence.

"We're going home and putting you straight to
bed. You are very ill," she replied. Worry crinkled her forehead as
she started putting the picnic items in her basket.

"No Matka, please. I want to watch Ojciec
play in the game. Really, I am fine."

"Absolutely not! We are going home right
now." She looked around to find a neighbor to relay the message to
Joe's father that they were leaving and why.

Gathering their picnic items, she spotted
Sam's mother, Mrs. Ludwicka, who was watching the game from beneath
a large maple at the edge of the park.

"Please, Mrs. Ludwicka, tell Mikołaj that my
Joe is ill and we had to leave. Have him bring our basket and
blanket when the game is over. May I leave them with you?"

"Certainly," Mrs. Ludwicka said. "And I hope
Joe feels better

soon."

Matka picked up Frank and grabbed Joe's hand. They
started down the wooden sidewalk toward their house. Joe was still
trying to convince his mother that he wasn't sick when another
coughing spell overtook him. They stopped on the sidewalk while the
attack racked his little body. As he coughed into his hands, blood
spattered his palms. Surprised and scared he held out his hands for
his mother to see. Wiping the blood with the hem of her dress she
told him not to worry—that he was going to be all right. Her face
however, indicated extreme apprehension. This spell was worse than
the two before, and Joe had to sit on the sidewalk to recover.
After a minute, Joe stood up to walk the rest of the way home, but
when he took the first step his knees buckled and he fell face
first onto the wooden planks.

There was no one on the street. Everyone was
at the park for the baseball game and picnic. Matka looked around
desperately for help. She couldn't carry both children for two
blocks. But for once, the streets were empty.

"Frank, you're a big boy, aren't you?" she
asked his little brother. Frank nodded that he was. "You are going
to walk next to me and I will carry your brother. Can you do that
like a big boy?" Frank nodded again, his eyes wide with worry as he
looked up at their mother. Matka picked up Joe's hot tired body and
lifted him onto one shoulder. Avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk
with the tiny heels of her shoes, she began to make her way toward
their home, little Frank toddling behind her.

Matka set Joe down on the front step when
they reached home. "Can you walk up the steps, Joe?" she asked.

"Yes, Matka," he said attempting to stand up.
With his mother's assistance he made it to the top of the steps. He
was so fatigued he felt like he had run several miles. His mother
helped him into the house and into the rocking chair by the empty
fireplace in the living room. She covered him with the quilt from
her bed and brought him a cold drink of water. Joe took a couple
sips and began to cough again. Pushing the quilt off, he knelt on
the floor as the spell overtook him. Matka wanted to get Joe up to
bed but she couldn't carry him up the stairs, and she didn't think
he could make it himself.

"Joe, if I help you can you walk up the
stairs to your room?"

"I think so, Matka," he replied. He couldn't
understand how he could play ball that morning but now he could
barely walk up a flight of stairs without help. He only knew his
body was burning up and his muscles felt like jelly. Together they
managed to get him up the stairs and into his bed. Matka pulled his
sweaty clothing off him and covered him with a light blanket. She
pulled up the shade and opened the window to let in some fresh
air.

"Can you ask Ojciec to come up to my room and
tell me what happened at the baseball game as soon as he gets
home?"

"Yes, Joe. Now, just rest please." She
smoothed the cool sheets on the bed. Her hair had fallen out of its
upward arrangement and Joe realized how taxing carrying him had
been on his small mother. His bright eyes widened in anxiety as he
remembered the baby she was carrying inside her.

"Oh, Matka! The baby… I forgot. I'm so
sorry."

"Don't worry about the baby, my Joe. Your
Matka is much stronger than you think. And you are not quite as big
as you think you are." She pushed his damp hair back off his
forehead tenderly. "Now close your eyes and rest, and concentrate
on getting better." Joe immediately drifted into a heavy sleep.

When Joe awoke the sky was dark outside his
window. Cold air was drifting into the room, chilling his skin. He
slowly sat up, trying to reach the glass of water by the side of
his bed.

"Whoa, son. Hold on there," Ojciec said. He'd
brought up a chair from the kitchen and had been watching Joe as he
slept. "I'll get it for you." He handed Joe the glass. Joe took a
long drink and handed it back to his father. Ojciec turned on the
small gas lamp on the dresser, and the room was bathed in warm,
yellow light.

"Thank you, Ojciec," he said quietly. "How
was the baseball game? Did your team win? Before his father could
answer, another coughing fit overtook him and he lay back down,
giving into it. Speckles of blood sprinkled the light blue blanket
he covered his mouth with. "Am I going to die, Ojciec? Why am I
coughing blood?" he asked.

"No! You are not going to die, Joe. We've
sent for the doctor and he's on his way. You are going to be just
fine. Don't worry." He started to give Joe a small grin to show his
confidence, but the grin stopped halfway from completion. Joe was
overtaken by yet another cough.

"Blanca, come quick!" he yelled out the
doorway. Joe's mother bustled into the room carrying a bowl of hot
water and a towel. Setting the items on the small bedside stand she
sat on Joe's bed.

"Are you having trouble breathing, Joe?" she
asked.

"Only when I cough, Matka. Why am I coughing
blood? What's the matter with me?"

"I don't know, Joe," she said. "Mikołaj, go
and see what is keeping the doctor, please." Joe could hear his
father running down the stairs and out the front door. His mother
removed his undershirt and washed his perspiring body with the warm
water and towel, then dressed him in a dry undershirt.

"Lie down, Joe, and don't worry. The doctor
will be here soon." She brushed his light hair with her hand. He
closed his eyes again and fell asleep.

Joe was awakened by a strange voice outside
his room. A German-accented man was speaking to his parents.

"How long have you noticed the cough?" Ojciec
translated the man's words for his mother, and she responded in
Polish.

"Just yesterday," Ojciec repeated to the
doctor..

"The boy has been tired, ja?" Again Mikołaj
translated.

"My wife says she just noticed yesterday and
made him stay home from our festival. She thought it was funny that
he agreed without much argument."

"Ahh… well it is difficult with young boys.
They are so full of energy—spinning like a top around and around
until they drop—it is difficult to tell with them," the voice
replied reassuringly. "Let's go have a look at the patient, shall
we?"

Joe was stunned to see his parents
accompanied by an elderly Jewish man. He wore a traditional
yarmulke and had long sideburns and a beard.

"Kochanie, this is Dr. Levy. Your father
found his office over on Hastings Street. Ojciec has brought him to
look at you."

"Come, young man, sit up for me." Joe sat up
and the doctor put his stethoscope on Joe's back. "All right, now
can you cough for me, Joe?"

Joe tried a small cough but it quickly turned
into a two-minute ordeal, leaving him again exhausted with speckles
of blood on his hands.

"All right, lie down, son." The physician
continued his examination, listening to Joe's chest and feeling his
abdomen. "Are you having trouble breathing?"