The King of Mulberry Street (4 page)

“Don't doubt me, boy. We're too far from port to turn around. If they find us, we'll be food for the fish. There's no other way to get rid of us.”

“Why would they want to get rid of us?” I said.

“No one has pity on sick stowaways. We could infect the ship; then they wouldn't let anyone debark in America. They won't take that chance. I hear that if a sailor lets a sick guy on, they throw him overboard, too.”

I wasn't sick. Neither was Mamma. We wouldn't get thrown overboard.

I had to get away from this sick man. I tried to climb over the crates. Impossible.

Mamma was nowhere near. Even if she hadn't overheard our conversation, she would have called out for me by now if she was down here. But she knew where I was. She'd come find me.

“I shouldn't be a stowaway,” said the man in a tired
voice. “I paid my passage. I was supposed to go to America in steerage, on a regular ship. It took years to earn the money.” He stopped talking. Too bad. At least his voice was a kind of company.

The boat pitched and made my stomach lurch.

The man groaned. “Leave it to me to pick up cholera, so they wouldn't take me, even with a ticket. But last night I heard people saying this cargo ship was heading to New York. I was practically crawling, but I snuck on.”

I shook my head, though he couldn't see me in the dark. “New York? I thought we were going to America?”

“New York is America, boy. Don't you know anything? New York is paradise. The opposite of your little hovel in Napoli. The opposite of where your mamma is.”

“Mamma is here. On the boat.”

“No, she's not. She stuck you here so you can go to America and make a life for yourself.”

“Mamma's hiding. She's on the top deck.”

“Are you crazy? No hiding places up there.”

“Then she's on the deck below. She's here!” I pushed hard at the crates. I threw myself against them, over and over. Finally some tumbled away, me with them. I stumbled forward till I finally grasped the ladder. It was as though I was in the grotto all over again—the panic I felt at the bottom of the ladder, the relief that came as I climbed.

At the top was a metal hatch. I heaved my back against it and it opened. Sunlight streamed in, all wonderful. The cool sea air swelled my lungs. “Mamma,” I hollered. “Mamma, where are you?”

A man pulled me from the hole. “What do we have here? A talking rat?”

Talking? Mamma had said to talk as little as possible. I dangled by one arm from the man's hand, the breeze knocking me about.

“No, a silent rat,” said the man who had told me where to hide. He came running over and shot me a warning glance.

I pulled myself free and gingerly walked a few steps along the deck toward a herd of cattle with pigs snorting among them. It was their hooves I must have heard before—that was what had made me think there were a hundred people on board. Beyond them was the terrifying sea in every direction. Green, swelling and falling, on and on forever.

Find Mamma. But the railing was two levels of pipes, with so much space below and between them that there was nothing to stop me from flying into the water with the next pitch of the ship. A mast rose thick and sturdy off to my left with a high pile of oily cloth folded beside it. I went toward it, my shoes slipping on the wet deck, arms reaching. I made it!

I climbed onto the pile of cloth, clung to the mast, and looked around. I saw men. Men, but no women. Not a single one.

“Come on.” A hand tugged my elbow.

My arms and legs were wrapped around the mast as if I was a monkey. My bottom was on the oily cloth, getting dirty, which didn't matter, since I'd wet my pants. I had yelled for Mamma, then cried myself to sleep.

“Get up.”

I hated all these men. They had seen me cry. And none of them would bring me to Mamma.

“Food,” the man said, lifting his eyebrows. “Come.”

Food? His face looked nice, almost kind. But I looked at the sea beyond the open deck and hugged the mast tighter.

He grabbed my shirt and pulled me down. “You'll get your sea legs soon,” he said. “For now, take the middle path.” And he let go.

I stood unsteady, arms to both sides. Path? All I saw were animals packed against one another and thick ropes coiled high. And pipes and rigging and barrels and lifeboats and the big white funnel horn.

“Follow me.” The man went straight toward the animals. Just then, the ship rolled and I fell on all fours. He grabbed me by the arm and we staggered through the animals. The cows had to be thumped hard to get them to move. The pigs grunted and threatened to charge.

We came to a second mast and a set of steps up to a raised area near the prow of the ship. A circle of men sat there, stripped to the waist. They made space for us.

Fresh bread passed from hand to hand. Then came dripping mozzarella, so new my fingers left dents.

“This'll be the last mozzarella till America,” said a man.

I caught the white drops of its milk in my hunk of bread. Slices of salami came around, wet to the touch. I didn't take any; they were made from pig. But I let myself smell my fingers after I'd passed it on: spicy and lemony. Then came tomatoes.

If the men had prayed before they ate, I hadn't seen it. And no one covered his head. They didn't act like my family—they didn't talk about how good the meal was and how thankful they were, even though this food was plentiful and delicious.

“Where's Mamma? She's hungry, too.”

“Your mother again?” said a man. “Eat, and we'll worry about her later.”

Nonna's proverb came to me: “
Chi tene mamma, nun chiagne
”—Whoever has a mother doesn't cry. I held my breath to stop the tears, but they came anyway.

The men jabbered on, not looking at me. I should have been grateful, but their ignoring me only made me feel more alone. They talked about the trip: two weeks if we were lucky and didn't hit storms. It could be three weeks. Four.

All that time at sea. How far was America, anyway?

They passed around a bottle of wine, each one taking a swill. When it came to me, I hesitated.

“What's the matter, aren't you weaned yet? You want milk?” asked a man jokingly.

They laughed.

I tried it. It was strong—not like the sweet wine we had at Passover. I didn't like it, but I was thirsty. I drank again, then passed the bottle.

But now they were all looking at me and talking about me, as though they'd suddenly been reminded I was there. The man who had brought me over from the mast said, “I'm Carlo. You get an extra tomato since you didn't eat the salami.”

“I'll save it for Mamma.”

“Don't worry about your mother,” said the man who had spoken before. “Just eat.”

“Why should he eat more?” said a man gruffly. “He's another mouth to feed—a useless mouth.”

Still, Carlo handed me a tomato so ripe and sweet, its juices burst in my mouth. I finished it and wiped my chin with my palm, then licked my hand.

“At least he appreciates a tomato,” said one man. And the others laughed again.

They went around the circle introducing themselves. Then they asked my name. Beniamino was a typical Jewish
name. These men weren't Jewish—not the way they'd devoured that salami. I remembered Mamma taking my yar-mulke off. I shrugged.

“A talking rat with no name,” said Eduardo, the one who had lifted me from the top of the ladder. A cigarette bobbled between his lips as he spoke.

“He must have slipped in last night early,” said Carlo, “because we had someone guarding the plank from midnight on.”

I glanced at Franco, the man who had snuck Mamma and me onto the boat this morning. He was looking at me, his face tense.

“… quieter than a rat,” Carlo was saying. “More like a mouse in church. What shall we call the mouse we see at Mass on
domenica
—on Sunday?” He clapped. “Let's call him Domenico.”

“In America, though, he'll need an American name,” said Eduardo. “Joe would be better.”

“Or just make Domenico short—Dom—like the Americans do,” said Carlo. “After all, he's a little fellow.”

They laughed. Most of them had lit cigarettes by now, and they were blowing their smoke into the breeze.

“What'll it be, little mouse?” asked Eduardo. “Joe or Dom?”

“Dom,” I said.

“See?” said Eduardo to Franco. “A talking mouse.”

“What do they call you in America?” I asked Eduardo.

“I don't need an American name,” he said. “I'm not staying when we land. You'll go off to Mulberry Street. But us …” He looked around at the circle of men. “We go back to Napoli—
bella
Napoli. So, little mouse, little Dom, let's
talk.” He leaned away from me as if to get a look at my whole self, while he picked salami from between his teeth. “Is your mother really hidden on this ship?”

I stole a glance at Franco. He closed his eyes briefly. But he didn't have to, because I'd figured it out. He'd get in trouble if I told; he'd brought two more mouths to feed onto this boat.

I looked down at my hands. As soon as these men went about their business again, I'd find Mamma. On my own. And I'd bring her food. Franco would give me food for her.

“If there's a woman on board,” said Carlo, “I'll be mighty happy.”

The men chuckled.

“If there were other stowaways, we'd know by now,” said Franco.

I remembered the sick man. “There is someone else,” I blurted.

“What! Who?”

“I don't know. He talked to me, but he didn't tell me his name.”

“Where is he?” asked Eduardo.

“One deck down. He was hiding in the dark near me.”

Eduardo got up.

“Wait.” I grabbed his ankle. “Be careful. He's sick.”

Eduardo's cheek twitched. “Sick how?”

“Cholera.”

He jerked free from me.

“I don't have cholera,” I said. “I swear.”

“Did he vomit?”

“Yes.”

Eduardo's mouth twisted into a grimace. “Then he's dying.”

And now they were all arguing. Everyone had heard of a different way to deal with cholera. The only thing they could agree on was that someone had to find the man. And soon.

No one volunteered.

They played a game—guessing the number of pigs on deck. The loser, a big man called Beppe, touched his forehead, his chest, his left shoulder, then his right. Aha: the sign of the cross. Catholics did that a lot. Beppe held up the medal that hung around his neck and said, “Help me, Sant'Antonio.” He kissed it and disappeared down the hatch.

He came back up, holding an oil lamp. “He's breathing. But he's too far gone to answer.”

One man got an oilclotch. Another got three brooms and handed them out. Beppe went back down the ladder with the lamp, leading the way to the sick man.

“Get up,” said Beppe.

No response. He must have been playing dead, hoping they'd go away.

“They won't hurt you,” I said. “They'll feed you. They fed me.”

He didn't answer.

Two men spread the oilcloth beside him and stood holding tight the top and bottom ends. Three other men used the brooms to push him onto the cloth.

He groaned and his head lolled to one side. The black bristles of his new beard were streaked with yellow and red. “Water,” he breathed roughly.

They carried him up onto the deck near the railing. Then two men lowered buckets over the side and filled them with water.

“Don't swallow,” said Beppe. “It's seawater. To clean you up.” And he doused the sick man with bucket after bucket.

The man's chest rose and fell. His face was clean now, and his black beard glistened.

“I've got fresh water for you,” Beppe said. “Open your mouth wide.”

The man opened his mouth but kept his eyes closed.

Beppe poured water into his mouth.

The sick man gulped and opened his mouth again.

Beppe poured a little more.

The sick man lay there with his mouth open. He didn't swallow this time. His chest stopped moving.

Someone nudged him with a broom. “He's gone.”

What? He was right there. The man nudged him harder. “He's not gone,” I said. “He can't be.” I went closer.

Eduardo caught me by the pants and pulled me to him.

They argued about whether they should search the man's pockets for identification, since his family would want to know. But no one was ready to touch him.

They all made the sign of the cross. Then the men with brooms came forward and the rest stepped back. I knew what they were going to do before they did it. I didn't scream.

He was gone, oilcloth and all.

He was there, and then he wasn't.

They swabbed the deck. Some went down the ladder with buckets and mops to swab below, too.

I stood and watched, my legs splayed so I wouldn't fall. The spot where the man had sunk, the man who was now food for the fish, was far behind us, covered by the turbulence of our wake. He was dead when they threw him over. He was dead, he was dead, he was dead. They would never throw over a living person. They would never throw over Mamma or me.

“Your pants could use some cleaning, too, Dom,” said a voice.

It took a moment before I realized the voice was talking to me. I was Dom. I looked up at Franco, who held a bucket.

“Take your pants off and dip them in here.”

Never undress with anyone else around—Mamma had made me swear. And now I knew why; she had said it for the same reason she had taken my yarmulke. She didn't want people to see my circumcision and know I was Jewish. I shook my head.

“You smell, boy.”

“I don't care.”

“But we do.” Franco wrinkled his nose. “Take off your shoes.”

Why? My shoes were way too small for these men. “No.”

“Suit yourself,” he said. “Do you like the water?”

“I swim,” I said. Then I tensed up. What did he mean?

“Oop la.” And he sloshed the whole bucket right at my middle with a smile.

I stood dripping, my new shoes soaked. Before I could think straight, I raised the back of my forearm to him, fist curled tight, in the angry gesture every Napoletano recognized.

I sat on the deck cleaning squid for Riccardo, the cook. I didn't like squid—they weren't kosher. The first time I cleaned them, I had to fight off revulsion. But cleaning squid took all my attention, and that was good because then I couldn't think about Mamma.