Chapter 38

This is Gemma Kane, speaking with Veronika Nowicki, a friend of my mother’s and a “second mother” to me as a baby, in the kitchen of Palermo’s Italian Restaurant, at 63rd and Maplewood, in Chicago, Illinois. Today is Thursday, June 01, 1961, and the time is 3:15 PM.

Veronika: (Wipes eyes with apron) I never expected to see you again after, what, half a century?

Gemma: Almost. I was three when we left, so it’s been forty-seven years.

Veronika: (Stirs huge cast iron pot of tomato sauce on industrial-size stove; wipes brow) I’m sorry, it’s hot in the kitchen. (Wipes eyes again) I can’t stop crying.

Gemma: The dining room is almost empty at this hour. Would your boss let us talk in there?

Veronika: The Calderones are so kind, they’d let me do anything. But their special sauce must be stirred every ten minutes, exactly, so it’s better that we stay here. (Winds small music box in hutch above stove; china ballerina in tattered pink tutu begins to turn)

Gemma: How pretty. It looks old. (Listens) For some reason, the tune sounds familiar. Is it a well-known piece of music?

Veronika: Sleeping Beauty. But perhaps you recognize the music box itself?

Gemma: (Shakes head) I don’t think so, and yet ...

Veronika: Your mother bought it for you at Marshall Field. I was angry that she spent money we couldn’t afford, but later I was thankful. When she took you away, it was the one thing of yours she left behind. (Smiles, wistful) The music takes ten minutes to wind down. For months after you left, I’d allow myself a ten-minute cry in the morning and again at night. Now I use the music box to time when I have to stir the sauce.

Gemma: I’m surprised you cook in an Italian restaurant. Chicago must have lots of Polish ones.

Veronika: Yes. That’s where I worked after I quit Armour. But Tazia and I taught each other our favourite dishes from home. Italians thought a Polish woman cooking lasagna would amuse the customers. They hired me to work in the kitchen and say “buona sera” to people in the dining room. I was a hit. Waiters liked me too. They got bigger tips when I came around to their tables.

Gemma: Did they split them with you?

Veronika: A few. But most were supporting families. With you gone, I had only myself to take care of. (Starts crying again) I’m seventy-three. It’s time I stopped working. (Points to gray hair, wrinkles) But I have to eat. Besides, what would I do with myself except get bored and lonely?

Gemma: (Hands Veronika a Kleenex) I never thought about how our leaving affected others, but being a mother, I can imagine your pain. If it makes you feel better, now that I’m with you, a few memories are coming back. Smells more than images or sounds. Pie. Dill. Cabbage soup?

Veronika: That’s right. We were poor. Soup made a filling meal. Especially if I could add a few shreds of pork. (Music box stops; stirs sauce; rewinds)

Gemma: Maybe that explains why growing up I was the only kid who liked cooked cabbage. I guess it had a pleasant association for me.

Veronika: We made a good family, the three of us. I loved your mother, and I adored you the moment I set eyes on you.

Gemma: My mother said I was born at home. Were you there?

Veronika: Oh yes. It was a difficult birth. You were breach. But your mother was so strong, even the midwife was proud of her. I wanted to call a doctor or go to the hospital, but Tazia refused.

Gemma: Poor people, immigrants especially, didn’t trust doctors back then. Even today, most Mexican families in California prefer home remedies. (Laughs) My mother’s favourite cure for a sore throat is still hot milk with a spoonful of butter, chopped garlic, and honey.

Veronika: (Grins) That’s not Italian. It’s Polish. I used to make it for you at the first sign of a sniffle. (Turns serious) I don’t think your mother mistrusted doctors. I think she was afraid that if she gave birth in a hospital, there would be a record that your father could use to track you down.

Gemma: And now I’m trying to track him down. Do you know who he was?

Veronika: I wish I could help, but I don’t know anything. Your mother was pregnant when she got to Chicago, so I assumed the baby’s father lived in New York. Her belly wasn’t too big yet. The cast on her leg was more of a problem.

Gemma: Goodness. Why was her leg in a cast?

Veronika: It happened during the fire. That’s how she ended up coming here. She and my cousin Olga worked together at Triangle.

Gemma: (Excited; stutters) Your cousin? What’s her name? Does she still live in New York?

Veronika: Olga Zabec. That’s her married name. (Writes Olga’s address and phone number)

Gemma: (Bounces) Oh, Veronika. I can’t thank you enough. Tell me everything you know about when they worked at Triangle, and their lives in New York. Maybe my father worked there too.

Veronika: Like I said, I don’t know. Your mother never talked about the fire, except she got angry when we heard on the radio how easy the owners got off.

Gemma: To this day, she still won’t talk about it. I can understand her need to bury it, although I admit I wasn’t always so sympathetic. You’re sure she never said anything about the other people she and Olga worked with? Where she lived? What she liked to do on her day off?

Veronika: All I can tell you is what her life was like once she moved to Chicago. (Music box stops; stirs sauce; hands music box to me to rewind)

Gemma: (Nods) I’d like to hear about that too. If it doesn’t get me closer to my father, it gets me closer to my mother. (Touches Veronika’s hand) Closer to you too.

Veronika: Life was hard. We worked long hours, six days a week. Different shifts, so we could trade off taking care of you. Sundays was for church. Your mother insisted on going to the Italian church across town, even though it meant dragging you on the bus. It hurt me that she wouldn’t come to the nearby Polish church with me. Mass was Mass, I thought. It wasn’t until my fifties that I understood how holding tight to the rituals we were born with connected us forever to home. Tazia realized that before she turned twenty. Maybe because she had you and was more aware of passing down your Italian heritage. Whatever the reason, your mother was wise before her time.

Gemma: Tell me more. What was our “family” like? Wait a minute. (Changes tape) Okay.

Veronika: Home was special. No matter how dirty and smelly the plant or Packingtown, we made our own little heaven. With you as our angel. You loved music. Every night after supper we sang songs from Italy or Poland and danced around the table. You also loved to count things. We didn’t own a lot, but you were happy counting things like the number of potato slices on your plate. (Smiles) Not that you were always well behaved. You could be stubborn and demanding.

Gemma: (Laughs) My mother would say I’m the same today.

Veronika: You knew just how to get one of us to say “yes” if the other said “no.” It was like a contest between Tazia and me to see who could be the better mother.

Gemma: My mother could be possessive. Was she jealous of you?

Veronika: I had to respect that I was your “second mother,” but I think Tazia was grateful. We both came from large families and missed our younger siblings. It was joy to have a little one in the house and to raise you together. (Stirs; rewinds)

Gemma: I got the feeling in the other places I’ve visited so far that it wasn’t hard for my mother to pick up and leave. It must have been hard for her to leave here though.

Veronika: I’d like to believe that. I still wonder sometimes if I drove her away.

Gemma: How?

Veronika: You told me on the phone that you got my name from ... that nigger man. He was nothing but trouble, and I told your mother so. Tazia wasn’t one to take kindly to interference.

Gemma: That’s for sure. (Hesitates) I admit that after I spoke to Mr Wright, I wasn’t sure what kind of woman I’d find when I met you. You and my mother will never see eye to eye on some things, but now I know what a good person you are. Taking my mother in without any questions, helping to raise me like I was your own. (Feels face getting hot) I guess I’m angry at my mother for taking us away from here. She hurt you, and given how attached we were, she hurt me too.

Veronika: I was also angry at first. I can’t count how many times I had to confess that to my priest. But I forgave your mother eventually. I never bore children, but I understand a mother’s first instinct is to protect her child. In the end, I think Tazia left because she was afraid for you.

Gemma: Afraid that my father would find me? Try to take me away from her?

Veronika: Possibly, but after three years she must have known the chance of his coming after you was slim. I think Tazia was afraid you’d grow up to have a life as hard as hers. Armour used to bring in kids your age to unclog the grinders. (Shudders at memory) I can’t say what your mother thought she’d find when she ran, only that she had faith God would lead her someplace better. (Stirs; rewinds)

Gemma: In the long run, I guess He did. It was a pretty roundabout route, though.

Veronika: Where did you go?

Gemma: (Ticks off on fingers) Topeka to begin with. My mother worked on a farm, which she liked, and we met some wonderful people there. Next was Las Vegas, where she found romance.

Veronika: How lovely. (Suspicious) With who?

Gemma: A dashing Italian man.

Veronika: White! (Sighs with relief)

Gemma: But not the marrying kind. We’ve been in California the last thirty-four years. I think my mother felt she was doing worthwhile work for the Navy, but the most satisfying part of her life has been seeing a third generation added to the family. If you thought she was a devoted mother, you should see how head over heels in love she is as a grandmother.

Veronika: (Grins) I’m glad Tazia found the good life she wanted.

Gemma: For most of that time, she made a good life for me. Only in the two years since she retired to a little town that reminds her of home, do I think she’s found a good life for herself too.

Veronika: Tell me how she looks so I can picture her happy at last.

Gemma: (Thinks how much older Veronika, also Elvan, look by comparison) I can’t remember how she looked before, so it’s hard to describe what’s different now. There aren’t any pictures.

Veronika: (Nods) I remember your mother’s camera and how fussy she was about the pictures she took. Only of you, and never with something in the background that would give away where.

Gemma: That hasn’t changed. Even at my wedding! (Closes eyes) Most of her hair is still dark, which makes her look ten years younger. Her skin is smooth, maybe because she’s done worrying about me. Only her hands are a giveaway. The term “manual labour” makes sense when you look at her. And you. And so many other hard-working people I’ve met on this journey. (Shrugs) I know that description doesn’t help much, but I know my son would say his grandmother is beautiful.

Veronika: Tazia always was a beautiful person.

Gemma: So are you. (Hugs, kisses, tears) I came to Chicago with a vague memory of a woman whose name I didn’t know. I’ll never forget your name now. (Music box stops; is not rewound)

The interview ended at 4:25 PM.