Beneath the Apple Leaves(75)
CHAPTER 36
Posters from the U.S. Food Administration lined the butcher shop and general store—the decrees for a rationed nation. Schools and churches sent pamphlets, drilled reminders in voice and verse:
Save a loaf a week—help win the war.
Eat less, save more.
Avoid wheat on Mondays, meat on Tuesdays and pork on Saturdays. Clean plates and avoid snacks between meals.
Eat more corn. Save wheat, red meat, sugar and fats for the troops.
And the farmers ate fine on what they could raise, while those in the city found pantries shrinking and bellies rumbling in patriotic servitude.
*
The first load of eggs, milk and butter was ready for market, stacked and packaged in wooden crates painted with the Kiser name. Andrew and Wilhelm and the two boys piled on top of the old wagon along with their wares and left before dawn for the East Liberty open market in Pittsburgh. They followed in a trail behind the Mueller sausage wagon and the Stevens bread truck, said good-bye to the open land and headed into the hungry smog pits of the city.
The three Plum farmers parked next to a litany of other wagons, a few motorized, on the perimeter of the market square. One after the other, they opened their wagons, stacked their crates and boxes, propped up wooden, hand-drawn signs that listed their products. But there would be no worry of competition. The market was packed, drawing in patrons from all sides and angles of the great city, searching for fresh food from the farm, for butter hand churned, for milk squeezed that morning, eggs that still had tiny feathers stuck to their shells, trout from small lakes, butchered chickens, lambs, cows and pigs. The people from Pittsburgh flocked for unblighted potatoes, beans that were fresh and not woody and cabbage heads still intact without wormholes.
Trams dropped off a steady stream of customers while a motley crew of vehicles, of rusted Lizzies and new Fords and horse wagons and buggies, lined the parking field. The divide between the old and new as clear as worn serge against fur-lined cuffs.
City boys in knickerbockers and short jackets and flannel caps darted between stands of popped corn and gingerbread cookies with burnt sugar and cinnamon drops; gambled in shell games, nearly feral in their excitement. Farm boys with dirty overalls leaned against splintered wagons, posing in mirrored posture to their leathered, chapped-lipped fathers. Women with long skirts and high collars, with ostrich plumes in their hats, kept tabs on the girls near their sides in clean and pressed pinafores.
In the middle of the market, vendors set up stands. There were jams and honey. Crates of asparagus, rhubarb, lettuce and peas. The smell of funnel cakes and fried dough filled the air, competed with the scents of roasted peanuts and chestnuts. Pickles soaked in brine in enormous barrels. Salt rock ice cream dripped down the chins of children. Smoked fish and smelly triangle blocks of cheese called forth tornadoes of flies. Candles of beeswax and tallow sat in front of an obese woman who did not smile. Hard sausage, smelling woody and gruff, hung from string tied from sloppily made awnings.
And the market burst with sound that made one feel at a great event, the clatter vibrating between the ribs. Banjoes played on a makeshift stage. Boxes of puppies and kittens barked and whined; canaries chirped in metal cages. Hens and roosters clucked and crowed in wire mesh squares. Children laughed. Vendors shouted prices. Young men whistled at pretty girls.
A swarthy dark man in a satin turban promised fortune-telling and horoscopes. A J.R. Watkins salesman sold salves, ointments, liniments, soaps, shampoo, spices, cocoa, flavoring extracts, baking powder, toothbrushes and toothpaste.
The milk and butter, hand-wrapped by Eveline, sold out within the first hour of the market and Wilhelm held on to the money as if it were glued to his fingers. They were the first dollars coming forth instead of going out and his voice deepened with dignity. And with each accruing cent, his manner became more open to the customers, his expression more pleasant. He moved out of the shadows, nodded to some, began to smile at others. The money was coming in. The flow was back. And when the first crate of eggs was purchased, he proudly gave Will and Edgar a few pennies to buy candy at the taffy stand.
Andrew took a break and walked around the stalls, eyeing the goods that went on as far as the eye could see. “You there!” shouted the dark-skinned man in Indian garb. “Want to know your future, young man? Come, come! Let me see your palm.”
Andrew stopped at the man’s booth out of curiosity, but on closer inspection he saw the shabby stitching at the shoulders and collar of the costume. The guru’s made-up face revealed he was no more Indian than Andrew was. “I think I know what the stars have in mind for me,” Andrew said. He and Wilhelm would start on the fields tomorrow and for the next six months Andrew’s future would keep him knee-deep in dirt and behind a plow.
Along the fake Indian’s table, among ivory and rosewood boxes, silver trinkets and a crystal ball, were lines of colorful gems presented on black velvet. Andrew picked up a round green stone, held it up to the sun, the color pale green but dark when shadowed.
The man nodded wisely. “Beautiful as a woman’s eyes, no?” His voice rose and fell like a rubber ball, his head jostling from side to side. Andrew squinted his eyes at the fortune-teller, wondered if he could really read minds.
“What kind of stone is this?”
“Emerald.”
Andrew’s laugh was quick and immediate. “And I’m guessing the glass pieces next to it are diamonds?”