Always aware of customer demands and the variety of foods wanted by its varied customers, they stocked everything from Polish bratwurst and sauerkraut to chit’lings, tripe, hog heads, pig feet, cow and pork brains, and the like demanded by colored folks coming up from the South. They also kept a pulse on the changing neighborhood, and in a city where the movie theater on the next block was still basically segregated just like the upscale theaters downtown, the Roman brothers had taken it upon themselves to integrate their grocery staff. When they hired me as a cashier, such a position in white-owned stores always had been held by white workers. There had been a few grumblings by a handful of white customers when I first began the job, but the Roman brothers had stood firm. Those customers who didn’t like it could choose to go elsewhere, they said, and I had kept the job.
“So, a hundred dollars, that’s it?” asked Leo Kondowski when Stacey and I presented our situation to the brothers. “That’s enough to get you home to your mama, all the way down to Mississippi? You sure it’s enough?”
“It’ll get us there and back,” Stacey said. “And, like we said, we’ll pay you back on Monday. My wife will bring you the money. We have bonds.”
“War bonds?” questioned Stanislaus, then looked at his brother and both shook their heads. Both Kondowskis were gray-haired and looked to be in their fifties, but Stanislaus was the elder. “No, no, you lose too much money you cash them in now,” Stanislaus said. “You keep the bonds. You pay us over time.”
“Well, we thank you for that offer, Mr. Kondowski,” Stacey said, “but we’d rather pay you back soon as we can with the bonds. We’ll sign a note to that.”
Leo Kondowski waved away the suggestion. “No need for a note. You’re good people and your word’s good enough.”
“We appreciate your trust, but we want to do this the business way,” Stacey insisted. “We’ll sign a note—”
“All right then, if you insist. We’ll make you a loan, but like we said, not against the bonds.” Stanislaus glanced at Leo, who concurred. “We’ll call it an unsecured loan.”
Stacey started to object, but Leo cut him off. “Not totally unsecured,” he said. “It’s secured by the kind of people you are. We admire your family, all of you. You and your wife buying that big house, making a home for your sister and for your brothers. Miss Cassie here going to school and your brothers fighting in the war, your whole family pulling together, just like we did to get this store, that’s a fine thing. You’re hardworking, all of you, and we’d be pleased to help you out so you can go see about your mama. Anybody raise such a family must be a fine lady.”
“She is,” I said. Stacey was silent.
Leo looked at his brother, then back to us. “So, shall we make out the note?”
Stacey looked at me, considering, and conceded. “We’ll repay you as soon as we can and we’ll pay interest, same as the bank. “
Stanislaus smiled. “If that makes you feel better. Leo, get a pen.”
I told the Kondowskis that most likely I would be staying awhile in Mississippi to help Mama after she was out of the hospital. They said my job would be waiting for me whenever I returned. They also said they would be praying for our safe journey and for Mama. As Stacey and I left the store, I glanced back at the Kondowskis. They were still standing in the doorway. They waved good-bye.
An hour later, Stacey, Dee, Christopher-John, Clayton Chester, and I formed a circle, held hands, and had family prayer. By eight o’clock, the car was fully packed and we were on the road, on a trip that would take us from the relative freedom of the North into the land of the Deep South.
GOING SOUTH
(1947)
I had taken the trip back to Mississippi twice before, once on the train and once with Stacey and Dee driving the two-lane Dixie Highway through southern Ohio and across the bridge that spanned the Ohio River, the Mason-Dixon Line that marked the end of our northern freedom. Once we crossed that bridge, everything changed. Once we crossed that bridge, we were in Kentucky. We were in the South, and there was no more pretense to equality.
Signs were everywhere.
White. Colored.
The signs were over water fountains. The signs were on restroom doors. The signs were in motel windows. They were in restaurant windows. They were everywhere.
Whites Only. Colored Not Allowed.
We didn’t have to see the signs. We knew they were there. Even if there were no signs on display, they were imprinted in all our thinking. They were signs that had been there all our lives. When Dee and I had prepared all the food for the trip, it had been as if we were packing for a picnic. But of course that wasn’t the case. We had packed all this food because once we crossed out of Ohio into the South we could not stop in restaurants along the way, even if we had had the money or the time. We couldn’t stop at any of the motels or hotels either. We ate our cold food, knowing it was as good as or better than any served in the restaurants. We kept the signs in our heads, ate our food, and were thankful for it.
Now, rolling through the border state of Kentucky, we took great care to attract as little attention as possible as we drove through the small towns that stretched along the highway. We stopped only in the big cities for gas. We stopped in Lexington, and farther south we planned to stop in Nashville or Memphis and prayed that everything would be fine with the car. We did not want contact with white people any more than necessary. We kept to the speed limit. We obeyed every traffic sign. Once in hard-line Tennessee, we grew even more cautious. We all watched for the police, who could be hidden at any intersection, at any bushy turn of the highway, or in response to the call of any white person who had seen us with our northern plates riding through.
And then we entered Mississippi.
We were now in the Deep South and there was no state more menacing, more terrifying to black people than Mississippi. In each town we were wary of white men gathered on porches, standing in groups on the street, wary of their stares at four Negroes riding in a brand-new Mercury with northern plates. We were wary if they stared too long, if they pointed toward us, if they appeared ready to approach us. We held our breath and moved cautiously, slowly, on, obeying fifteen-mile-an-hour town speed limits, stopping at every red light, breaking no rules, and all the time as we drove, as we worried about being too noticeable, we worried about Mama. It didn’t seem real that she was sick, that she had had a stroke, that she was in a hospital, that she possibly could die. We didn’t want to think about it and none of us talked about it, but all of us knew we had to get through these small towns and down the road again toward home. Only once out of a town did we breathe normally again. Close to home, we drove through the town of Strawberry, its streets deserted in the predawn hours. We were glad of that; we did not want to be seen. We were in Mississippi, our birthplace, but it was now like being in a foreign land.