Junny's Marie

Prologue

Marie and Anne had ridden bicycles along rural French Road five miles north of Little Chute, Wisconsin, many times before the fall of 1932. Now just twenty, Anne was dating Nick Thyssen, who lived one mile beyond the Lamers farm. The sisters giggled about the handsome Lamers boys that were rumored to live on the three hundred twenty-acre farm.

We better take Marie down the road and let her see those Lamers boys. There’s seven of ‘em, Nick teased.

I don’t believe it, Anne replied.

It seems to me we’d see signs of someone, Marie added.

As many times as Marie and Anne passed the supposedly heavily male populated Lamers farm, neither had ever seen any sign of the boys.

As they approached the farm they saw dim barn lights casting an eerie glow through small cloudy windows. Shadowy figures within piqued the girls’ curiosity. They strained to get a glimpse of someone, to no avail. It was milking time.

The same yellowish light and muted activity could also be seen in the early morning hours. Again, milking time. Again, routine chores devoutly being performed. Chores that came first. Chores that took priority over school or personal interests. Chores that came all too quickly every twelve hours. Chores. A fact of life in the early 1930’s.

How many Lamers boys did you say lived here? Marie asked as Nick drove past the farm taking her and Anne home after a dance in Freedom.

Seven, Nick replied.

Where are they all? Anne wondered aloud.

Never you mind, Nick scolded. You need not look further, he said as he reached over, giving Anne a kiss on the cheek.

Marie could feel a blush rising from her neck reaching her cheeks as she looked away, trying to see beyond the amber glow of the illuminated barn windows.

A sudden rectangular flash of light momentarily lit up one end of the barn as a figure stepped through the door. A moment that would have been missed had Marie not looked away from Anne and Nick, glancing toward the barn as they drove on past the ever intriguing Lamers farm.

Did you see that? Marie blurted out, louder than she intended.

What? Anne replied turning her gaze toward Marie, regretting for a moment she had agreed to take her along again to the Friday night dance at the Legion Hall.

I saw someone come out of the barn, Marie said. Let’s go back.

Ma’s waiting for you, we can’t, Anne said frowning in the darkness as Marie twisted her head around watching the faint barn lights fade in the distance.

Upon reaching the two-story house on Monroe Street in Little Chute, Marie jumped out of the car. She ran up the steps and across the porch that was cast in the soft glow of the light Ma always left on to remind her she was expected, and probably late. The fall Wisconsin air was warm and the inside door was open. The screen door was closed, keeping the last of the mosquitoes out. The house was quiet but as Marie had anticipated, Helen was up waiting, when she entered the house.

Is Anne coming in? Helen asked. She promised to drop off that lace collar she crocheted for me.

Yes, she’s coming, Marie said quietly. She’s talking to Nick and she’ll be right in. Marie made kissing noises and the two stifled laughter.

Anne appeared at the screen door with a paper bag in hand. Helen ran to the door, flung it open and went out on the porch.

You remembered! Helen exclaimed as Anne handed her the bag, giving her the look nuns give an impatient child.

Helen unrolled the worn paper bag and sighed as she pulled out the delicate white collar, catching the faint smell of bologna.

The three sisters sat on the porch swing as Helen praised Anne’s perfect stitching on the collar that would make any sweater look swell.

Do you love Nick? Marie blurted out suddenly.

Tell us, Anne, pleaded Helen, three years younger than Marie, who in turn was 16, four years younger than Anne.

Yes, answered Anne. I love him.

"What does that feel like? How do you know? How is like different than love?" Helen asked, looking younger than her thirteen years.

You’re too young Helen, Marie said protectively.

Pausing, Marie turned toward Anne and said, "Jeekers, Anne, what does it feel like?"

You are both too young. But, being in love is very different from just liking someone, Anne replied, smiling wisely. "I like my socks, but I love my silk stockings. One is simply a whole lot nicer than the other. You’ll know when it happens. Trust me, you’ll know!"

Marie steepled her fingers beneath her nose in deep thought remembering the shadowy figure she momentarily glimpsed in the glow of the barn lights at the Lamers farm.

I’ll know, she murmured, smiling like she had a secret. Good night you two.

Good night, Anne whispered, kissing Helen on the forehead. Turning and catching the kiss blown by Marie, she descended the porch steps and headed for the waiting car. Nick smiled as Anne opened the door. She scooted over and kissed his ear playfully.

Home, driver, she said, and the car lurched off into the night.

Anne had quit school before graduating high school and was working for Vanderveldens as a live-in housekeeper. Vanderveldens also owned a tavern, appropriately named Van’s, and that’s where she and Nick met.

The following weekend Marie and Anne found themselves once again at Thyssens. Nick had two sisters and three brothers. Mart and George were gone looking at a motorcycle and Nick said Ray was down at the Lamers farm. Marie’s ears perked up at that and try as she might, her matter-of-fact voice gave way to her real emotion. Really? she said.

Her face lit up with the prospect of a glimpse of one of the mysterious Lamers boys. A nervous blush rose in her cheeks as she announced she was going for a walk. She quickly realized she had announced her urge to take a walk too soon after Nick said where his brother was. In an attempt to cover up her eagerness, Marie turned toward the big orange cat that was transporting her new litter of kittens from places unknown, to the safety of the barn.

How many trips has Clown made with those kittens? Marie asked, feigning interest.

Nick fell for the cover-up and told her he had seen the cat only twice that day, but he was sure she had made several more trips.

She usually has eight or nine in her litters, he said proudly. By the looks of the two I saw she must have been visiting the Lamers farm. They’ve got the only black and white cat I know of. Look, there she goes with one that’s the spittin’ image of the tomcat I saw down there, last week. He barely made it across the road in front of the tractor when I was taking the manure spreader over to Hietpas Dairy.

Not really interested in the cats nor Nick’s manure story, Marie locked eyes with her sister. Anne smiled. She had not fallen for Marie’s sudden curiosity in Clown and her kittens.

Embarrassed, Marie glanced sideways at Nick, but he seemed oblivious to the exchanged looks shared by the sisters. He was still chuckling about the cat and wondering aloud about how many kittens there were.

A moment later Marie waltzed down the driveway, clearing her throat noisily, winking at Anne as she passed. Nick was still contemplating Clown’s route as Marie left the driveway, contemplating her own route…straight to the Lamers farm.

The cloudless sky seemed bleached by the sun and the red and yellow of fall made the very countryside appear on fire, as Marie made her way south. Ripe apples hung heavily on the trees as she reached the orchard. A slight breeze made the apples bob in slow motion and Marie stopped as the back of the farmhouse came into view. For a moment she thought she might turn and run back to Thyssens. She turned her churning thoughts inward and continued toward her destination. Upon reaching the side of the old farmhouse she noticed the faded yellow paint was beginning to curl slightly. Her courage waned again, when at that moment she saw a male figure in the yard next to a Chevrolet with a rumble seat. An audible sound escaped her mouth as she sucked in her breath. The figure turned and the air she was holding in her lungs released as the young man waved, calling her name. She recognized the face attached to the voice as that of Ray, Nick’s brother. Her shoulders dropped in disappointment as she half-heartedly returned the gesture. Ray motioned for her to join him with a twist of his head and a flipping of his thumb. Marie tried to hide her disappointment as she headed up the short horseshoe-shaped driveway. She managed a cordial smile. Ray's smile was next to goofy, stretching from ear to ear, showing almost perfect teeth.

What are you doing here? Marie asked as she approached Ray.

I was about to ask you the same thing, Ray retorted.

Ray kept the silly grin, nodding as Marie explained. She said she just decided to take a walk on such a nice Sunday afternoon to enjoy the fall colors.

I was supposed to go with George and Mart, Ray explained. They went to Seymour to look at a motorcycle Junny wanted to buy. But I got here too late and they left without me.

He said Johnny in the Dutch dialect with the short u sound, pronouncing it Junny.

Marie thought that was an odd name and asked, Who is Junny? That rhymes with funny.

Junny. Junny Lamers. He lives here.

Whose car is this? Marie continued the interrogation.

Belongs to Junny, Ray answered, eyes narrowing as he looked at her quizzically.

Let’s go for a ride Ray, Marie challenged.

I can’t do that. Junny will be back soon. They only went over to Seymour.

Oh come on Ray, I’ll take the blame, she chided boldly.

Unable to dismiss the challenge, and against his better judgment, Ray agreed to go for a short spin with Marie.

Marie jumped in the passenger side of the car and merrily slammed the door. Ray followed suit with bravado that didn’t quite match that of the bold young woman. She chuckled as he stretched to reach the pedals, stuffing his jacket behind him. Junny must be tall, she thought.

Ray pressed on the accelerator and they chugged out of the driveway heading north toward Thyssens. The road was narrow and dusty as they bounced past the orchard. They passed Thyssens, but no one was outside to appreciate the fearless duo as they continued on their journey. Just as Ray was beginning to feel confident about joy riding in Johnny’s car, he felt a tightening in his stomach when he spotted a car coming in their direction.

Nah, it can’t be, Ray whispered almost inaudibly as the car drew nearer.

What? Marie queried, looking at Ray, who had lost some of the color in his face. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.

I wish I had. I ain’t lyin'. I wish I had. It’s Junny. He’s with George and Mart and he sees us in HIS car. I’m as good as dead.

Marie looked out the windshield and saw the car coming down the middle of the narrow road, leaving no room on either side for passing. Her boldness had dwindled as she contemplated what was about to unfold. Was this Junny a mean guy? Was he going to beat Ray up? Suddenly she wished she had stayed with Anne and wasn’t sure just how she would take the blame when confronted with the owner of the stolen car in which she was a passenger. After all, it was a stolen car. Could Ray go to jail? Could she go to jail?

Trying to become invisible she slid down in the seat, eyes pinched shut, wishing to turn back the clock to this morning. This morning at mass she had prayed for nice weather and a part in the upcoming school play. She never expected to be in a fix like this. She wondered what her mother would say if the police showed up at their house. What am I doing? What a dumb cluck I am, she thought.

The car abruptly halted and Marie opened her eyes. The other car was right up against them, touching like the noses of dogs, when trying to establish who’s the toughest.

Ray put the Chevy in reverse and began backing down the road with the pursuing car still close enough to see the smiles on the faces of its occupants. Marie wondered if the smiles were smiles of friendship, or smiles of satisfaction upon having caught car thieves in this felonious act. They continued backing up for what seemed like hours, with the other car practically touching their front bumper. Marie tried not to make eye contact with the faces in the car ahead of them, but she did manage to get a quick look at the man in the back seat. Was he the mysterious Junny?

A sudden lurching of the Chevy brought Marie back from her thoughts as Ray backed into the driveway and stopped just short of the garage.

Nice day for a drive, Ray said sheepishly.

Ain’t it though, replied Johnny as he pulled his long form out of Mart’s car.

Who’s your partner in crime? he added, turning his gaze toward Marie, wrinkles of amusement forming at the corners of his eyes.

Marie avoided those eyes for a moment and suddenly regained her spunk as she jumped out of the car and came face to face with John Lamers.

Face to face was not quite accurate, with Marie barely reaching five foot two and John towering almost a foot taller. His height didn’t faze her as she looked up at him and exclaimed, I asked him to take me for a ride. Her bravery surprised her and she felt confidence take hold as if someone was talking through her. It was me, I’m to blame. I talked Ray into it. It’s all my fault, she practically shouted, hands on her hips.

"Is it?" Johnny said with a heavy accent on is, looking down at her, trying not to grin as he dove into Marie’s brown eyes. Bold little squirt, he thought.

If you want to ride so bad, hop in and I’ll give you a ride.

Taken aback, Marie felt her boldness dwindle and her knees weaken. She had not expected this reaction and was not ready with a quick response that usually came as second nature.

Well, little miss, do you want to go for a spin or not? Johnny said, moving one step closer, enjoying the moment.

I, I can’t. I have to go home, Marie stammered meekly as she turned around and headed toward Anne, who was just coming out of the house. She was angered at herself for backing down so quickly.

Who was that? Anne asked when she saw the look on Marie’s face.

The Lamers boys, she whispered. It’s one of the Lamers boys. His name is Junny. Ray and I took his car for a ride, Marie babbled. Anne’s eyes looked past Marie at the tall man and shrugged her shoulders, palms up.

Marie heard the engine and spun around just as John Lamers was pulling out of the driveway, heading toward Thyssens. Was he looking over his shoulder? She couldn’t see. She felt relief mixed with disappointment as the dust swallowed up the Chevy.

Chapter 1

Water lapped against the ship and Frances wondered how long before her small family would see the shores of America. Almost twenty-eight she, husband Peter, and young son Jan left Holland for the usual reasons, hoping to find a new life. A life that would be easier. A life with hope. Sometimes thoughts of America set her mind swimming in a sea of emotions. Leaving her family forever left her with unbearable pain. She likened it to a death. Her very soul ached for the ones she left behind, but part of her soul longed for what lay ahead. America! She rolled the word around in her mouth, her lips moving slightly, savoring every syllable. Frances turned her gaze back toward Holland letting her thoughts drift. The year was 1908.

Born Frances Van Heeswyk August 6, 1880, in Oss, Netherlands (Holland), she met and married Peter Wittenberg. When son Jan was eight, the decision to leave her homeland had been both easy and difficult. Easy, wanting a better life for her young family. Hard, leaving all she knew behind. She and Peter had discussed their plan long into the night for months before they set out across the Atlantic to the mysterious place called America. A place Frances had only heard about and dreamed about, was soon to become a reality. The Wittenbergs would soon join over three million people who immigrated each year to the New World. She and her tiny family would become a part of the wave of people hoping to settle in what was appropriately called the melting pot.

Her melancholy mood deepened as she thought of all the people, friends and family she’d probably never see again. She couldn’t have foreseen how difficult the final good-byes would be. With hot tears scalding the corners of her eyes, Frances turned her face to the wind as it attempted to loosen her dark wavy hair from the bun at the base of her neck. She swallowed hard, blinking back tears as she looked around analyzing the expressions on the faces of the people around her. The weathered faces and covered heads of the other passengers clutching children and worn tattered travel bags, all shared a common thread. The squinting eyes and shadowed faces showed a plethora of emotions. Sadness. Concern. Fear. Apprehension. Each etching its path on the faces of those who dared seek a new life across the sea to America. The common thread was visible in the eyes of each person Frances saw. It literally shone there and Frances was sure it was in her eyes as well. Hope. Hope that overcame sadness and concern, fear and apprehension.

The thought that perhaps some family members and friends would follow, lifted her spirits once again. Her friends Mary and Pete Smits, promised to follow as soon as they saved a little more money. Peter and Frances had saved very little money and knew it would be rough going at first. Determination and the optimism of youth won over economical wisdom regarding financial resources. The young couple had no money to spare as they began the biggest adventure of their lives.

Peter’s voice broke through, dissolving her thoughts, and brought her back to the present. You dast be sad wife, Peter said in a broken mixture of two languages, a wide smile broadening as Frances looked up at him. Excitement once again rose to the top of the mountain of emotions as she dwelled on Peter’s smile. Exhilaration lit up his face, inviting Frances to join the mood. It was easy to get caught up in Peter’s enthusiasm and Frances once again focused on the future in America. Arm in arm, with Jan squeezed between them, the couple turned and faced west, lifting their chins to the wind, determined to face the future in the same way.

Chapter 2

Finding New York overwhelming, the Wittenbergs struggled with disillusion when the reality of overcrowded big city life clashed with their hopes. Instead of prosperity and wealth, friendliness and opportunity, they found slums and poverty, prejudice and adversity.

The plight of the immigrant was painfully obvious to the hopeful couple and dampened their hopes. The misery of those who had fallen behind in the great march of democracy was almost palpable. Stacked in filthy ill-ventilated tenements, generations of once optimistic families lived in squalor. The rickety five and six-story wooden structures were breeding grounds for disease and nurseries for vice. New York City alone, before the turn of the century, housed half a million people in these slums where the death rate was four times that of the more fortunate residents of the city. A typical block on the Lower East Side found almost twenty-eight hundred residents without a single bathtub. One-third of the rooms contained no light nor provided any ventilation. Another third merely had small air shafts. The stench of the slums permeated the very air and hung like a fog. The crusade for Social Justice had begun trying to clean up the slums to create better living conditions, but the battle was a long campaign waged on many fronts. Women and children were exploited for labor and sex. Industry failed to pay a living wage and child labor was a public scandal. Peter and Frances held tightly to Jan when hollow-eyed children with bent backs and deformed hands were seen leaving their 12-14 hour shifts at factories and fish processing plants. Maimed or worn out workers had no recourse and were left to fend for themselves. Alcoholism and abuse ran rampant as the endless stream of people flowed into America. The excitement of descending the plank onto Ellis Island paled in the days that followed and the Promised Land of the New World became frightening and hostile. Everyone taking the last step off that plank anticipating a better life, faced a choice. Stay and dissolve in the industrial revolution of an overcrowded city or join the multitudes that spread evenly throughout the North and Midwest into farming and expanding industry. That choice came only after days of mental as well as physical testing. Humiliating physical examinations were given in groups and, in front of strangers. Lines were formed and letters crudely written on the front of their clothing, determined the length of their detention. The letter M meant a possible medical problem, and those with that letter were funneled into yet another line to be checked out further by overworked physicians. Those unlucky enough to bear an X on their shirt or dress were considered to have a possible mental illness and were subject to a barrage of odd questions and mental testing. Not knowing the language and not understanding the questions could mean returning to the ship for deportation. If an immigrant had the name of a friend or relative with which to live, they would be allowed in easier. A person with a place to stay meant less chance to be in need of public assistance. A woman alone was cause to be singled out for possible return to the ship as another potential liability to the city. Many women, who ventured to America alone, merely pretended to be with a man for admission to the New World.

Having no problems, Peter and Frances were allowed to enter America with Jan. Seeing no real choice in the matter, Peter used the last of their money to book passage through the Great Lakes to a place in Wisconsin called Green Bay. There logging was king and the leading industry in the state. Peter had heard of a lucrative lumber business in Oconto Falls about twenty-five miles north of Green Bay and was sure he would find work there. He knew how to drive a team and had pulled sleighs in the old country. En route to Green Bay, Peter assured Frances he could drive log sleighs or skidders with teams of oxen. Within a week Peter was indeed hired and he headed to Oconto Falls to work for Pitts Logging Company. In lieu of his first week’s wages, Peter was issued the needed apparel for his new career as a lumberjack. Stag pants, heavy Mackinaw, wool cap and mitts along with wool socks, shirts and hobnail boots, all needed to keep out the cold and snow. Logging was done mostly in winter but summer cutting was still done and logs stacked. Logs were picked up at staging areas and delivered to either logging chutes to wait for spring thaw, or right to the riverbank of the Oconto River. Then down the river eighteen miles east to Oconto on the shores of Green Bay.

The bunkhouse at Pitts Camp housed twenty-six men and they had to cut and haul the wood to keep the drafty shacks warm. The men had only oil lanterns to play cards by before turning in for the night. The smell of sweaty wet wool and leather was almost overpowering as the men hung their clothes on long lines near the crude barrel stove. Their boots were lined up as close to the stove as possible sometimes causing the ripe leather to steam. They were lined up according to rank. The longer you had been at Pitt's, the closer you could put your boots. Therefore, Peter's boots were often still damp when they got up before dawn to head to the cook shanty for breakfast. The food was good, simple and filling.

Peter made a good friend at Pitts from Scandinavia called Oonsen who was missing a good portion of his left foot but still could handle a shovel with the best of them. Peter never knew if that was his first or last name. Everyone just called him Oonsen. He used to ride the logs on the log chutes during the spring thaw that led from the top of the ridge outside Oconto Falls down to the river's edge. Oonsen was fearless and had become a clad driver, the most dangerous job in logging. They rode the logs downstream keeping them from forming a jam. If a jam did occur, the clad driver would clear out the jam and keep the logs moving, sometimes standing waist high in freezing cold water to do so. Finding the offending log that held the rest back and dislodging it was risky and perilous, costing many men lost limbs or lives. Oonsen along with another clad driver, had been in the process of ramming a wedged log when the growing jam upstream dislodged and began piling up behind them. The roar was deafening when the logs crashed together like gigantic sticks as the whole jam let loose. They both turned around in time for Oonsen to jump to the side while the mountain of logs grabbed his friend by both legs, twisting him in corkscrew fashion as he disappeared beneath the churning mass. Oonsen hadn't even noticed the whole outside of his left boot was gone and the swirling water was pink as blood gushed from what remained of his foot.

Sadly, what was left of the other clad driver was found the next day fourteen miles downstream. He was pummeled and smashed beyond recognition, his clothes having been torn from his body by the sheer force of the logs crashing their way to the bay in Oconto. Tufts of matted reddish hair, imbedded in parts of his skull that hadn't been scraped off on the journey downstream, were the only identifiable remains of the clad driver.

In summer when there wasn't enough work for everyone at the camp, the new guys didn't work, especially the ones who were not as seasoned as most of the loggers. So during those times Peter worked on a nearby road crew. The horse drawn wagons and wood sleighs, carrying tons of logs, were rough on the roads. Well-worn ruts could be over two feet deep and filling those ruts seemed futile. It was hot dirty work and only paid half what the loggers got, but it was money and he was glad to have the opportunity to work at all. Gotta stick to the plan, was Peter's motto and that was the motivation behind everything he did.

The road crew bosses, however, were ruthless and pushed the men relentlessly. The one in charge of the crew Peter was on, reminded the men of a boss on a chain gang. The guys had to practically run to the bushes to relieve themselves while he scowled and looked at his watch, his face red with impatience. Behind his back, the crew called this boss, Mumps because his cheeks and chin melted into his neck giving him the appearance of swollen glands resembling mumps. Mumps didn't know about the nickname and never did figure out why the guys all grinned when he wiped the trails of dirty sweat off his thick neck.

Oonsen and Peter had pledged to cover each other's ass when the road boss questioned where the other one was. On days when the heat was unbearable Peter would find himself taking a bit longer than the allotted five-minute break every two hours. Oonsen would tell Mumps that Peter just sat down so he had a couple minutes left. The crew boss would belittle the men and threaten to cut their time and money. Often the men would be close to passing out from sweating more than the intake of water they drank, on their short breaks.

Women were not often allowed in lumber camps, so Frances and Jan stayed in a room in Green Bay. Lumberjacks made from $18 to $30 a month including room and board, so before long the future seemed to be looking brighter. The American dream was hard, but not impossible. Neither Peter nor Frances had ever been afraid of hard work, and dreams of eventually having a house and garden, or perhaps a small farm someday, began to take shape. No matter how hard the work, Peter was determined to save enough to get home and buy a small place for his family.

Horrors of New York City found their way to the back of their minds as plans for a new life seemed a reality. But within the year, the dreams and plans for the future came to a tragic halt, when Frances was brought news of Peter’s death. A nice man with a limp from Pitts Lumber Camp, whose odd name Frances could not remember, was kind and gentle when he told her Peter was dead. He added that Peter was a good friend and talked about the plan all the time. Peter had asked him to come in person if he died. A final sort of covering his ass as Peter had put it. Peter died of sunstroke. The rigors of logging were rough, but the long hours without relief in the blistering summer sun had taken its toll.

The world took on a blur as Frances wrapped her mind around what she was being told. Peter was dead. Their dreams were shattered. Her world destroyed. Frances didn't realize the man who had brought her the terrible news left after he told her, but she found a box on the porch with Peter's things from the lumber camp inside. There was a journal inside, among the other things, that listed everything he had envisioned for their future, appropriately titled The Plan. The words were written across the top of a crudely assembled stack of papers attached with a frayed string at the top. Frances ran her fingers across the familiar printing as a cry of despair escaped her lips. All too soon reality reared itself and she had to face it and weigh her options.

Life in a logging community offered few choices for employment and Frances didn’t want to face the reminders of her life gone awry there. After a modest funeral, which depleted most of the money they had saved, she packed up her few belongings and she and Jan headed to a town just south of Green Bay. De Pere was a friendly little town and Frances found a job in a hotel cooking and cleaning in exchange for room and board with a few cents left over. Life had taken a cruel turn for Frances, but she was determined to make the best of it.

Chapter 3

The newlyweds, married less than a month, climbed into the buggy with five friends, eager to have a cool ride along the Fox River. The seven of them laughed as the buggy bounced along the road leading to a canal before the bridge. John Welhouse and his bride, the former Mary Ann Heinz, snuggled in the back of the buggy as they headed toward the township of Kimberly for a belated wedding celebration. The reception hall was crowded, awaiting John and Mary