Paul
The morning shift at Nash Motors had just finished, and the men were beginning to make their way across the street toward Frank’s Barbershop.
It was shortly after seven o’clock in the morning.
For nearly two years, the Nash factory had been employing men from all over southeastern Wisconsin. Some had come from farms. Others had worked in foundries, machine shops, and railroad yards. A growing number were immigrants or the sons of immigrants who had found steady employment in Kenosha.
Frank had become accustomed to hearing all sorts of stories from the men who occupied his three barber chairs.
But on this particular morning, he was about to hear one that surprised him.
Three men entered the shop together.
All three were broad-shouldered, with weathered faces and rough hands. The oldest appeared to be in his late forties. The youngest couldn’t have been much more than twenty-five.
“Morning, gentlemen,” Frank called.
“Morning,” the oldest replied, removing his cap.
“Just getting off work?”
“That’s right. Twelve hours in that place. Figured we’d get cleaned up before going home.”
Frank pointed toward his chair.
“Well, have a seat. We’ve got room for all three.”
The oldest man settled into Frank’s chair while his companions took the other two.
Frank fastened the striped barber cloth around his customer’s neck.
“What are we doing today?”
“Short around the ears. Leave enough on top to comb.”
Frank picked up his scissors.
“How long have you been working at Nash?”
“Coming up on two years. Started when it was still the Jeffery operation.”
“Where’d you work before that?”
The man looked at Frank through the mirror.
“Milwaukee.”
“Doing what?”
“Fishing.”
Frank smiled.
“Commercial fishing?”
“That’s right. Lake Michigan. Trout, whitefish, whatever we could bring in.”
“Well, that’s quite a change. From fishing boats to building automobiles.”
The man gave a short laugh.
“Wasn’t exactly our choice.”
Frank paused.
“What do you mean?”
The man looked toward his two companions.
“Tell him, boys. Tell him where we’re from.”
The younger man spoke first.
“Jones Island.”
Frank frowned.
“Jones Island? Down in Milwaukee harbor?”
“That’s the place.”
“I thought that was mostly harbor property.”
The oldest man shook his head.
“It is now. Wasn’t always.”
He settled farther back in the barber chair.
“My name’s Stanislaw Kaczmarek. Most people call me Stanley. My father lived on that island. My grandfather lived there. I was born there.”
Frank began trimming around his right ear.
“And you all lived there?”
“All three of us. And a good many more of the fellows working over at Nash.”
That caught Frank’s attention.
“How many?”
“Between the families and the younger fellows, I’d say there’s a dozen or more of us working over there now. Some came down together. Others followed after they heard there was work.”
“All fishermen?”
“Most of us. Or sons of fishermen.”
Frank glanced toward the other chairs.
“Well, I’ll be damned. I never knew that.”
Stanley nodded.
“Most people don’t.”
The Village in Milwaukee Harbor
Frank continued cutting.
“So tell me about this island. I know where it is, but I never knew people actually lived out there.”
Stanley smiled faintly.
“People lived there for generations. At one time there were hundreds of families. Maybe sixteen hundred people altogether.”
“Sixteen hundred?”
“That’s what they used to say. Houses, fishing boats, smokehouses, taverns. We had our own little village.”
The younger man in the next chair spoke up.
“Eleven saloons, too.”
That brought laughter from the barbers.
“Eleven?” Frank repeated.
Stanley grinned.
“Well, fishermen get thirsty.”
Frank shook his head.
“Sounds like quite a place.”
“It was.”
Stanley’s expression changed.
“Most of us were Kaszub.”
Frank stopped cutting for a moment.
“What’s that?”
“Kaszub. Some people call us Kashubs. Our families came from the Baltic coast, back in Poland. Fishing people. Been fishing for generations.”
“So you’re Polish?”
“That’s what most Americans call us. We have our own language and traditions, though. Our people came from the country near the Baltic Sea.”
Frank nodded.
“And they settled on this island?”
“Back in the 1870s, a lot of them did. They found a place where they could keep doing what they knew.”
Stanley looked down at his hands.
“My father taught me to fish when I was seven. By twelve, I could handle a boat. By sixteen, I was going out in weather that would scare most men half to death.”
The youngest man, whose name was Joseph, laughed.
“Stanley’s father was tougher than anybody I ever knew.”
“He had to be,” Stanley replied.
Frank asked what the women did.
“Everything,” Stanley answered. “They kept the houses, cleaned fish, helped sell the catch, and worked on the nets. My mother could repair a torn net faster than most men could tie their boots.”
“Your wife too?”
“Absolutely. She still knows how. But there isn’t much call for that in Kenosha.”
Frank continued working his scissors.
“How’d you sell your fish?”
“Some went to dealers. A lot went straight to people’s houses. We’d bring in trout and whitefish, and the women would help get it ready. Then we’d take it around Milwaukee.”
“So you worked for yourselves?”
“Mostly. Some owned boats. Some worked with relatives. Some hired on with other fishermen.”
Stanley paused.
“We weren’t rich, Frank. But we had our homes. We had our boats. We had our families.”
He looked at himself in the mirror.
“And we weren’t punching a clock for twelve hours.”
They Didn’t Own the Land
Frank had reached the back of Stanley’s head.
“So what happened? Why’d everybody leave?”
Stanley’s face hardened.
“Because somebody decided the island was worth more without us on it.”
Frank lowered his scissors.
“Who?”
“First there were companies claiming the land. Then there was the city.”
Stanley explained that the islanders had lived there for years without formal deeds to the property.
“Most of our people didn’t think much about that when they first settled. They built houses, raised families, repaired boats, and kept fishing.”
Frank nodded.
“But eventually somebody came along claiming they owned the ground.”
“Exactly.”
Stanley leaned forward slightly.
“Back in 1896, a steel company went to court trying to get people thrown off the island.”
Frank raised his eyebrows.
“After they’d been living there twenty years?”
“That’s right.”
“Did they win?”
“Not against most of us. People fought them in court. Some families lost their places, but most held on.”
Joseph interrupted from the next chair.
“My grandmother used to tell a story about constables coming down with eviction papers.”
Stanley started laughing.
“Oh, I remember hearing about that.”
Frank looked over.
“What happened?”
“The women chased them off.”
“The women?”
“That’s right,” Joseph said. “Those constables came thinking they were going to tell people to leave their houses. The housewives came out and made it clear they weren’t going anywhere.”
Frank laughed.
“I would’ve liked to have seen that.”
Stanley nodded.
“You didn’t fool around with those women. They could handle a fishing net, clean a hundred pounds of fish, raise six children, and still have enough fight left to chase a constable off the island.”
The men laughed.
Then Stanley grew serious again.
“But winning those court cases didn’t settle everything.”
The City Wanted the Harbor
Frank began working on the left side of Stanley’s head.
“So what changed?”
“Milwaukee was growing. More factories, more ships, more freight. The city wanted a bigger harbor.”
“That makes sense.”
“Sure it does,” Stanley replied. “But the trouble was, we were in the way.”
He explained how Milwaukee officials wanted to expand the port facilities and use portions of the waterfront for sewage treatment.
“They wanted docks, industrial land, and a sewage plant. Our houses and fishing shanties didn’t fit into their plans.”
Frank nodded slowly.
“So they bought you out?”
“Not exactly the way you’re thinking.”
Stanley shifted in his chair.
“The city condemned the land. That meant they could take it for public purposes. They paid people compensation, but it wasn’t like every family had a choice about selling.”
Frank frowned.
“So even if you didn’t want to leave, you had to?”
“Eventually, yes.”
“What about the people who had lived there their entire lives?”
“Didn’t matter much. The city had plans.”
Stanley looked toward the front window.
“Imagine somebody coming into this barbershop and telling you the city needed the whole block for a railroad yard.”
Frank stopped cutting.
“And telling me I had to get out?”
“That’s right.”
“After I’d spent years building the business?”
“Exactly.”
Frank looked around his shop.
The three chairs. The mirrors. The shelves of shaving mugs. The photographs from his Navy days.
He had put years of work into the place.
“I wouldn’t take that very well.”
Stanley nodded.
“Neither did we.”
Why Kenosha?
Frank returned to his work.
“So why’d you fellows come down here instead of staying in Milwaukee?”
“Some did stay in Milwaukee,” Stanley explained. “Others moved to different fishing grounds. A few families went north. Some kept fishing wherever they could.”
“What about you?”
“I tried to stay in the business.”
Stanley explained that he had worked out of another Milwaukee landing for a while, but things were different.
“Boats cost money. Nets cost money. You need a place to keep your equipment, somewhere to land your catch, and somebody to buy your fish.”
“And you lost all that?”
“Not all at once. But enough of it.”
He looked toward Joseph.
“His brother came down to Kenosha first.”
Joseph nodded.
“Started at Jeffery. He heard they needed men, and he knew there were more of us looking for work.”
Stanley continued.
“Then Nash bought the operation. Word got around that there was steady employment. Twelve-hour shifts weren’t pleasant, but you knew what you were getting paid.”
Frank asked whether they had known anything about automobile manufacturing.
“Nothing,” Stanley replied.
“Not a thing?”
“I knew how to repair a boat engine. I knew how to work with tools. But building automobiles? Never crossed my mind.”
“So what’d they put you doing?”
“Assembly work. Moving parts, fitting things together, whatever the foreman needed. They found out pretty quickly I wasn’t afraid of hard work.”
Joseph spoke up.
“Some of the older fishermen had a harder time. Men who’d spent forty years on the lake didn’t much care for being told when they could eat and when they could go home.”
Frank smiled.
“I can imagine.”
Stanley shook his head.
“On the lake, you worked according to the weather and the fish. Sometimes you worked twenty hours straight. Sometimes a storm kept you ashore.”
“And now?”
“Seven in the evening until seven in the morning. Every shift, according to the factory whistle.”
Frank laughed.
“Well, at least the factory doesn’t sink in a storm.”
Stanley smiled.
“No. But there are nights when I’d rather take my chances with the lake.”
A Dozen Men From the Same Island
The conversation had attracted the attention of everyone in the shop.
Eddie, working at the third chair, asked whether the men still lived near one another.
“Some of us do,” Stanley answered. “Not all. There’s a few families renting places within walking distance of the factory.”
Joseph added that several more former island residents had relatives considering coming to Kenosha.
“One fellow’s brother is still fishing out of Milwaukee,” he explained. “But he says it’s getting harder to make a living.”
Frank looked at Stanley.
“So there are really that many of you over at Nash?”
“More than you’d think. We don’t all work in the same department. Some of the younger men came down first, and then their fathers or uncles followed.”
“Does the company know where you’re all from?”
Stanley shrugged.
“Probably not. To them we’re just Polish workers.”
He smiled.
“But we know each other.”
Frank asked whether they spoke Polish among themselves.
“Sometimes Polish. Sometimes Kaszubian. Mostly English when we’re around the other men.”
Joseph laughed.
“One of the foremen heard us talking one night and asked what language we were speaking. When we told him, he said he’d never heard of it.”
Frank chuckled.
“Well, until this morning, neither had I.”
The Life They Left Behind
Frank had nearly finished Stanley’s haircut.
He took his comb and checked the length across the top.
“Do you ever go back to the island?”
Stanley nodded.
“Sometimes.”
“What’s it like now?”
“Different. A lot of the old houses are gone. Some people are still hanging on, but the place isn’t what it used to be.”
He was quiet for a moment.
“There’s something you ought to understand, Frank.”
“What’s that?”
“We didn’t just lose our houses.”
Frank waited.
“We lost the whole village.”
Stanley looked at him in the mirror.
“When you lived on Jones Island, your cousins were down the street. Your uncle might have a boat tied up beside yours. Your grandmother lived two houses away. If somebody got sick, everybody knew. If somebody got married, the celebration could last three days.”
Joseph nodded.
“And everybody came.”
“Exactly,” Stanley continued. “You didn’t need much money to feel like you belonged somewhere.”
Frank rested his comb against the chair.
“And now everybody’s scattered.”
“That’s right. Some in Milwaukee. Some farther north. Some here in Kenosha.”
Stanley shook his head.
“People talk about how much money the city paid us. But how do you put a price on a place where your family lived for forty years?”
Frank didn’t answer immediately.
He understood something about building a life around a particular place.
His barbershop wasn’t simply a business. It was where he spent most of his waking hours. Where he knew his customers. Where men came to talk about work, their families, their automobiles, and their troubles.
And across the street, the Nash factory had become the center of an entirely different community.
“Well,” Frank finally said, “I suppose you can’t.”
A Fisherman in a Barber Chair
Frank brushed the loose hair from Stanley’s neck.
“How’s that look?”
Stanley examined himself in the mirror.
“Looks good.”
Frank removed the barber cloth and shook the clippings onto the floor.
Stanley reached into his pocket to pay.
Frank took the money, then asked another question.
“Do you think you’ll ever go back to fishing?”
Stanley considered it.
“I’d like to.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Money, mostly. And finding somewhere to start again.”
He pulled on his coat.
“Besides, I’ve got three children. My oldest boy’s nearly ready to work. Nash pays regularly. Fishing doesn’t always.”
Frank nodded.
“So you’ll stay?”
“For now.”
Joseph had finished his haircut and was standing near the door.
“Come on, Stanley. We’ve got to get home before the wives start wondering where we are.”
Stanley laughed.
“After twelve hours in the factory, a man ought to be allowed half an hour in a barbershop.”
Frank smiled.
“Tell them I kept you talking.”
The three men put on their caps.
Before leaving, Stanley turned back.
“You know, Frank, there’s something funny about all this.”
“What’s that?”
“Back on the island, we spent our lives bringing fish out of Lake Michigan. Now we’re building automobiles for people who probably never heard of Jones Island.”
Frank nodded.
“World changes.”
“Sure does.”
Stanley opened the door.
“But I still miss the lake.”
After the Fishermen Left
The door closed behind the three men.
Frank stood beside his chair, looking out toward the Nash factory.
Eddie began sweeping up the hair around his station.
“Never knew there was a whole fishing village down in Milwaukee harbor,” Eddie said.
“Neither did I,” Frank replied.
“Imagine living somewhere your whole life and then being told to leave.”
Frank shook his head.
“That’s the part that gets me.”
Vivian, who had been listening from the middle chair, spoke up.
“They probably thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives there.”
Frank nodded.
“And their children after them.”
He walked toward the window.
Across the street, another group of factory workers was leaving the Nash grounds.
Some were heading home. Others were stopping for breakfast. A few were coming toward the barbershop.
Frank watched them for a moment.
“You know something?” he said.
Eddie looked up.
“What?”
“We see these fellows come through here every day. We know what department they work in. We know what kind of automobiles they drive. We know who their foremen are.”
He paused.
“But we don’t always know where they came from.”
Vivian nodded.
“Or what they had to leave behind.”
Frank turned back toward his chair.
“That’s right.”
A moment later, the door opened again.
Two more Nash workers entered.
“Morning, Frank. Got time for a couple of haircuts?”
Frank smiled.
“Sure do. Come on in.”
As the first man settled into the chair, Frank fastened the barber cloth around his neck.
“Just getting off the night shift?”
“That’s right.”
Frank picked up his comb.
“How long you been working at Nash?”
“About a year.”
“And where were you working before that?”
The man smiled.
“Milwaukee.”
Frank raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me. Jones Island?”
The customer looked genuinely surprised.
“How’d you know?”
Frank stopped with the comb in his hand.
From the middle chair, Vivian began to laugh.
Frank shook his head.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
He glanced toward the factory across the street.
“How many of you fishermen are working over there, anyway?”
The man grinned.
“More than you think, Frank. A whole lot more than you think.”
And for the second time that morning, Frank found himself listening to the story of a little fishing village that Milwaukee had decided it no longer needed.
