The Old Neighborhood

Streetcar Number Four rested on a dead-end section of track at the rear of the museum. Its backdrop was a wall-size photo titled “Detroit Street Scene, ca. 1938.” Visitors could ‘board’ through the rear door and walk down the center of the car and out the front. Seats were blocked with plexiglass, but there was plenty of room for a school tour.

I’d found the box of tokens on a shelf among my other education supplies. I'd dropped one in the fare box to see if it would work for an interactive activity. I wasn’t sure which was luckier: that I’d gone alone, or that I had the other tokens with me.

After several trips, I knew what to expect when I walked to the front of the car and dropped a single fare through the slot.

I smoothed my hair, straightened my handbag and stepped into 1939.

On my first trip when people passed without a second glance, I’d assumed I was invisible. When I’d stopped to stare through a store window at an assortment of typewriters, the reflection stopped me cold. Hair curled in neat rolls, a puffed-sleeve polka-dot dress, hose with seams straight down the back . . . whatever I saw looking down at myself, I was dressed for the Thirties.

I crossed the street with the same casual disregard as the temporal locals. The streetcar always deposited me across from a newsstand in Detroit’s old Pole Town. Pausing in front of the newsstand’s broad selection of English and Polish papers, I sighed at the thought of these shops and homes paved under an auto plant.

The headlines of both language’s papers were bold, but those in Polish read: Germans Advance on Warsaw and Gdynia Fights On. The American papers noted President Roosevelt’s fund to help Americans abroad, but without the bold type. Local headlines featured Miss Michigan being crowned Miss America.

“The usual, Miss?” The newsstand man was already picking up a Free Press.

It felt strange having a routine with a man who probably died forty years before I was born. “I think . . . .” My gaze wandered over the magazines clipped with clothespins to the awning. “Maybe Life today.” I hoped I sounded as unconcerned as I didn’t feel.

“Crazy over there, isn’t it?”

I tried to keep smiling. “That’s a word for it.”

His smile faded. “Your family’s there?”

‘There’ meant Poland. “Most are here. Not all.”

He nodded. “Maybe you’ll hear from them soon?”

I thought of the Red Army advancing from the East. The Germans blitzing from the West. Soviets rounding up Polish officers at Katyn. Germans bulldozing homes to build “work camps.”

“Maybe.” It sounded hollow even to me.

He handed me the paper and magazine. I gave him twenty cents. No one ever commented on dimes with the face of their current president. I could probably print halfway-convincing paper bills with Photoshop, but passing counterfeit money seemed wrong, even when the victims were long gone.

“Have a pleasant day, young lady,” said the vendor, touching his cap.

The first trip, I’d only peeked around the corner, halfway believing everything away from the tracks would be a gray void. Instead, there was another street lined with shops and homes. I could see the Catholic cathedral, in my time a shadow of its former self, here with a full school and daily Mass. My destination was across from the school in the middle of a block of houses and storefronts. Curtains fluttered from open windows. Somewhere a radio played. I could hear a tenor crooning about “South of the border, down Mexico way.”.

School was out, from the kids running down the street and reading on their front stoops. I thought about school tours who considered a slow walk across the exhibit gallery on par with climbing Everest, or teachers who wanted everything on tablets because ‘they won’t read paper.’

The bakery wasn’t busy in the afternoon. That had surprised me until I realized in 1939, you went to the bakery first thing. The trolley dropped me the same time every day, no matter when I left, so I never arrived for the morning rush. Still, the display counters were filled with cookies, cakes, and the last of the day’s bread The wall behind the cash register was decorated with a print of Our Lady of Czestochowa, a photo of a sturdy-looking man and a pretty woman in a floral-print dress, and a calendar with a faded photograph of Krakow and the logo of the Polish National Alliance insurance company.

“Afternoon, miss!” The baker himself was behind the counter today. Stanislas Piotrowski was built like a wrestler from hefting hundred-pound sacks of flour since his long-past teens. I wouldn’t want to try arm-wrestling him for a discount, as he’d once told me he’d done with a dairyman for two cents less per pound on butter. “You’re late today. Bread to go home?”

“Depends on what’s left. Is there chleb wiejski?”

Stanislas chuckled at my very American pronunciation. “Two loaves. Want both?”

“Please.” This time, I knew better than to mention freezing the extra.

He wrapped the loaves in a pink-striped paper bag. I had a small collection tucked in my closet back home, packed in an archival box keep them from fading and to keep mice from seeking out the crumbs I couldn’t bear to throw away. “Anything else?”

“Is there chleb dziadka?” I grinned. If it was strange to have a routine with a newspaper seller from sixty years before I was born, it was downright wild to have a running joke with a baker from the same time. Wilder still he didn’t, couldn’t, know why it was funny.

He shook his head, eyes twinkling. “Chleb babuni, nie dziadka,” he chided for the umpteenth time. “Grandma’s bread, not grandpa’s.”

“But you make it, not grandma,” I gave the expected retort.

“You think I’m old enough to be a grandpa?” he said, shaking his head dramatically as he pulled a loaf with the distinctive darkly-browned top crust from the back of the case. “Though give my eldest boy a year or two, who knows? That’s what he should be thinking about.”

There was the clatter of running footsteps from somewhere behind the counter. The door swung inward and a little girl with blonde braided pigtails charged in. A hand caught the door as the source of the other footsteps caught up with her. He wasn’t much younger than me, with darker blond hair than the girl and eyes the same shade of blue as Stanislas.

“Janina!” Stanislas set the loaf down. “What have I said about running?”

“Tata!” she protested, squirming to escape the boy’s grasp even as he swept her up as if she were light as a feather. “Tadeuz says he’s leaving!” She turned in the boy’s grip to give him a stare so stern I’d have laughed.

If I didn’t know.

“I told her the truth, Pop.” The young man, Tadeuz, sounded as American as I did. “They’re calling for volunteers. I’m going.”

“They?” Stanislas glared, the humor gone completely from his face. “Did Roosevelt join the war? Maybe I didn’t hear over the mixer.”

Ignoring the sarcasm, and Janina’s death glare, Tadeuz said “Poland! The government in exile. They need men to fight the Germans and the Russians. We can’t abandon our country!”

“Our country?” Stanislas started to shove the loaf into the bag and caught himself. “Forgive my son. He forgets he was born in Detroit, not Warsaw.”

“I’m sorry,” Tadeuz said, turning to me. “But you must know what’s going on over there.” He pointed to my newspaper. “Someone has to do something.”

“Men have to do something. Boys . . . .” Stanislas finished packing the bread more carefully. “There, Miss. Anything else today?”

I turned, facing the case of cookies, so they couldn’t see my face. And I couldn’t see Tadeuz’s. No gluten-free cupcakes or vegan chocolate chip here. There were dark, spicy molasses cookies rolled in sugar, some with specks of sesame and poppyseeds from day-old bread ground in to add softness. The brightest colors were jewel dots of jam, red raspberry and gold apricot, in bite-sized thumbprints.

Janina, the end of one of her braids in her mouth, watched me from her brother’s arms. She leaned her head against his shoulder, clinging as if she could keep him home by holding tight enough.

“What do you think, Janina?” I asked. “I need to get something special for my aunt. What’s your favorite?”

She regarded me silently, suddenly shy. Tadeuz grinned. “Tell the lady which ones you like best.”

Janina gave him the exasperated look kids are experts at. The look that said “why are you asking stupid questions if you already know the answer?”

“Butter jams,” she said, as if her brother was being very silly. She looked at me. “Tadik makes them just for me. They’re special. See?” She squirmed, and her brother set her down so she could come over to the case and point. “The raspberry ones. He makes little hearts, for me.” She turned back to her brother. “If you go away, who’s going to make them?”

Tadeuz looked away. “Tata’s are just as good. You won’t notice, Janna.”

“Yes I will!” She raised her foot to stamp it, but Stanislas cleared his throat and she lowered it.

“I’m not leaving this instant. By the time I get back, you’ll be making butter cookies for me.” She was still glaring, and her brother narrowed his eyes, then bopped her lightly on the nose with a fingertip. In spite of herself, she giggled.

“I’ll have to try the butter cookies,” I said. “Twelve raspberry and twelve apricot, please. My aunt will love them.”

Stanislas packed a cardboard box while Janina watched like a bakery supervisor, holding the ribbon down so her father could tie a perfect bow. “You should always have them with milk.”

“I’ll remember,” I said, and glanced at my smartwatch, masquerading as a slim gold winder. “I need to catch the streetcar.” They had no idea how long a ride it was. “How much today?”

Stanislaus turned to the register, but Tadeuz had beaten him. “Three loaves, and two dozen butter jams at ten cents a dozen, comes to fifty-five cents, miss.”

I handed over two quarters and a nickel. “Thank you.” I had to hurry to catch the streetcar, but another glance at the calendar made me pause. “Don’t be in too big a hurry. Remember your family needs you, too.”

“If you won’t listen to me, listen to the customers,” Stanislas said, a lot less gently.

I was a customer, not a parent, so Tadeuz couldn’t argue, but behind the nod and smile I saw the skepticism.

Janina was still watching. “Next time I see you, I’ll tell you if I liked the cookies.”

“Aren’t they for your aunt?” There’s no skepticism like a kindergartner’s.

“I already know she does.” I headed for the door. “Thank you again, Mr. Piotrowski.”

“See you next week!” I hoped he was right. I looked through the front window. Tadeuz had turned back to his father, and I could see the hard set to Stanislas’s jaw. Janina was beside her brother, holding his hand as she stared into the case at the butter cookies.

I could see Streetcar Number Four coming back down the line on its return trip. I’d always wondered who the other passengers were, or who the driver was. Did they even see me? Getting a firm grip on my purchases, I dropped another of the precious tokens in the collection box.

The bone-jarring rattling started immediately, and I braced myself against a plexiglass barrier that hadn’t been there a moment ago. The familiar oil and floor-wax scent of the museum hit, and the only lights were the dim security overheads.

The magazine and the paper were pristine as they’d been on the newsstand, and the bakery packages still smelled fresh. I paused before stepping out of the streetcar. My second trip I’d nearly been busted by a janitor who’d decided to start in the urban transportation section that evening. Tonight the coast was clear.

Back in my office, I put the paper, bread, and cookies in my tote. The Life magazine went in my drawer with others from previous trips. I’d flip through later, maybe even share interesting articles or ads from the “identical reproduction” with the rest of the education department.

I made sure to wave to the guard at the security desk. Just another late night for Janie, nothing out of the ordinary.

It was a twenty-minute drive to Warren and the dead-end suburban street where my great-aunt lived. She’d lived there since it was built in the early Fifties, with her husband. He was long gone. I had vague memories his funeral at the big old church downtown when I was five. Aunt Jan, physically slower but still mentally sharp at ninety-one, lived alone with visiting caregivers, like Monique, her night carer.

Monique smiled when she saw the packages. “Your aunt’s gonna be so happy to see these. She loves that bread.”

“There’s cookies, too,” I said, holding up the box. “Raspberry and apricot butter cookies.”

Monique shook her head, grinning. “I’ll get us some coffee and milk for Ms Jan. She’s not supposed to have sweets, but if you live to be that lady’s age, you eat whatever you want!”

“Cookies and milk never hurt anyone,” I agreed.

“That’s the truth. I don’t know where you found this bakery, but their stuff perks her up more than anything I get at Meijer’s.”

“Just a local place with weird hours.”

Monique took the bread to put in the kitchen. “We could use more little places like that,” she said on her way through the door.

“We sure could.”

While she started our coffee and poured the milk, I went downstairs to what Aunt Jan called the family room. I‘d always thought it was because of all the family pictures Aunt Jan kept on every surface, like her wedding photo from the early Fifties, her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and older photos. Some were casual snapshots, like the broad-shouldered man with a woman in the floral dress. Some were studio portraits, posed and airbrushed so nothing distracted from the sitter’s face.

Like the young man in a World War II uniform with the patch of Eagle Squadron, an RAF unit of Poles in exile and American volunteers.

It, but I knew that his hair was dark blond under his officer’s hat, and that the eyes twinkling under the cap were bright blue.

“You have nothing to do besides visit an old lady?” Great-Aunt Janina, wrapped up in her afghan, scolded me from the sofa. On TV, Ken Jennings was informing tonight’s Jeopardy! contestants none of them had gotten Final correct. If I’d been a few minutes earlier I’d have heard my aunt lecturing the players, as if shouting at the TV helped.

I’d always thought if I ever got around to growing up, I wanted to be like Aunt Jan.

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“I still think you want me in your museum with the rest of the relics,” she groused, but I could see the smile sneaking out.

“Any time you want to come talk to school groups about life in the city, especially during the war, you’re welcome. We won’t put you in a display case.”

“Probably ought to, at my age.” She stared at the box. “What have you got there?”

I held it up, still tied closed with the bow Janina had held in place for her father. “Someone told me they’re your favorite.”

Her eyes widened. For a moment, I saw the same bright eyes looking up at her big brother. “Where did you find those? Nobody makes them anymore. Too old-fashioned, I guess.” Her eyes narrowed. “They aren’t some crazy flavors? Mango blueberry with unicorn sprinkles?”

I laughed. “Raspberry and apricot.”

“My father’s bakery used boxes just like this,” she said, the ribbon shaking as she tugged it free. She pulled back the tissue paper and her eyes widened. “Oh, my.”

“I didn’t think they were that exciting,” I lied.

“Oh, Janie, you wouldn’t understand.” She picked up a raspberry-filled cookie. “My older brother–Tadeuz, I’ve told you about him, haven’t I?–used to make them. He’d make the thumbprints look like little hearts, just for me. Someone made these the same way, see?” She held one up so I could see how there were two impressions instead of one, slightly overlapping, so the bright red preserves made a little heart.

“Very sweet,” I said, taking one of the apricot cookies.

“Tadik went to the war early, before the draft. Tata tried to talk him out of it, but he went to England to sign up with the Polish exiles.” Her eyes clouded. “He was killed over France before your grandfather was born.”

I nodded, nibbling at the the cookie. My grandfather was born when Janina was ten. I knew it was decades before my father was born, and possibly Tadeuz would have died of old age, like great-grandfather Stanislas had died while my grandfather was still young.

Still . . . some part of me had hoped this time I would have made a difference.

“I used to call these butter jams,” she said around the crumbs, and now I really couldn’t trust myself to speak. “These taste just like I remember. They’d be better with milk. Where’s Monique? She could bring us some.”

“She’s getting it,” I said, pretending I had to cough because of crumbs. “You like them?”

“I could close my eyes and be back in the bakery.” She looked at me, brows furrowed like a skeptical kindergartner. “Where did you find them?”

I took a moment to finish my own cookie, the taste growing sweeter as I chewed. “Just a place in the old neighborhood.”