The King of Mulberry Street (7 page)

A woman in the next line cried to her husband. She
wasn't from Napoli, but I could understand her. Their child had gotten a chalk mark on his jacket because he was sick. The nurses said they'd have to take him away. She was afraid to let him go. At the same time she was afraid that if she didn't, they'd all be sent back. I wanted to tell her they'd be lucky if they were sent back. As soon as I reached that inspector, I would tell him everything and be sent home.

The two Napoletani in front of me practiced what they were going to say.

One of them played the inspector: “Do you have a job?”

The other answered, “Yes, at …”

“No!” said the first one. “It's illegal to have a
padrone
who got you a job ahead of time. You say, ‘No.’ ”

“But we paid all that money. We have a
padrone
, right?”

“Of course we do. He's waiting for us when we get out. Okay, second question. Where are you going to live?”

“I don't know.”

“No! You say, ‘At my cousin's on Mulberry Street.’ With as little money as we have, unless we say we have a place to stay, they'll send us to the Board of Inquiry, who will send us back to Napoli. Listen, you be the inspector. Ask me what I'll do in America.”

“What will you do in America?”

“Anything. I will take any job I am offered. See? That's the right answer. Ask me about money.”

“What about money?”

“We have to have enough. That's what I just said. Show the inspector all your money.” He sighed. “They have to let us stay—we can't go back to starving. Look, I'll answer first.
Listen and you say the same thing when it's your turn. Understand?”

“I understand.”

I doubted the second man understood anything. But I understood. And I was happy. I had no money. They'd send me home for sure.

Finally, the inspector talked to the two men. The translator spoke our language pretty good. The inspector checked their names against the ship's list. He asked if they could read, if they were sick, if they were married, if they'd committed crimes, what their occupations were, if they were anarchists—on and on, ending with how much money they had. The men couldn't write, so the translator wrote answers for them.

I glanced over at the next line. The inspector there asked a woman if she was married. He asked her that shameless question with her child holding her hand, right in front of her husband. She stiffened at the insult and her husband objected in a fierce voice.

Mamma had to put up with insults because of me all the time. And it dawned on me: right now, wherever she was, she didn't have to. Anyone new who met her didn't have to know she had a child. They could ask, “Do you have a child at home?” and she could answer, “No.” She could get an office job—the right kind of job for someone who could read. Maybe she had one already.

That would be good. If she had a job, she couldn't cry all day about missing me. And when I got back, she could keep the job, because her boss would realize by then how smart and useful she was. Life would be better.

The man behind me pushed me forward. The inspector spoke to me in loud English. It was clear he was annoyed. He must have been talking to me while I was thinking about Mamma.

“I want to go to Napoli,” I said.

“Ah,” said the translator, “another from Napoli. Where are your parents?”

“Everyone I know is in Napoli.”

“No no, I'm talking about here. Where are your parents in this room?”

“I'm alone. I want to go to Napoli. I have no money.”

The man lowered his head toward me. “What's your name?”

Should I tell the truth? Beniamino, the name I was born with, or Dom, the name the cargo crew had given me?

“You know your name, boy. What is it?”

I shook my head.

“A lost child,” said the translator.

“There are lots of lost children,” said another translator. He stood in front of the middle line, and the way he talked, I knew he'd grown up in Napoli. “Put him out on the front steps. His agent—some tricky
padrone
—will find him.”

“I don't think he has one. He must have come on that big ship—the
Città di Napoli
. That ship's careful not to break the law; they don't let on children who belong to a
padrone
. He must have lost his family.”

“Then his father's in this crowd,” said the Napoletano translator. “Don't worry. The father will find him.”

“He'll stay with you, then, Giosè.”

“I'm as busy as you are. I can't worry about a little
scugnizzo
.” The Napoletano translator turned away and spoke to the people at the front of that line.

“My inspector says you have to keep him beside you till his father shows up,” my translator said, then gestured to the man behind me to come forward.

“I'm not babysitting him,” said Giosè.

“Look,” said my translator. He pointed at my shoes. “This is no urchin. The father will be grateful. Maybe I should keep him myself to get the reward.”

Giosè blinked at my shoes. I might not have had socks, but my shoes looked beautiful. “What am I supposed to do with you? All right, you've got shoes. You're somebody's little
signore
. Get over here and stand behind me.”

I stood behind Giosè. My arms hung at my sides like dead fish. It was too hard to keep fighting. Soon enough they'd realize I had no father here and they'd have to send me home.

The lines went on forever. Giosè told me that more than five thousand people would pass through these lines that day. I knew that was huge.

The immigrants were almost all men, some in their teens. They talked about how wonderful they knew America was and how they would send for their wives and mothers and sisters soon, as though Giosè would be impressed and treat them better. But he didn't really look at them, and he did a lot of sighing. Many of the men held books and read to one another.

When Giosè went to the bathroom, I asked the man at the front of the line, “What are the stories about?”

He smiled proudly. “These are no stories. This book is
teaching me how to speak English. Listen.” He spouted off gobbledy-gook. Then he waited.

It took a second before I knew what he wanted; I clapped.

He pressed his palm against his chest. “I'm a skilled artisan and now I speak English. I'm going to get a good job making beautiful furniture.” His breath was foul, and I found myself staring at a tiny black bug jumping in his hair. I stepped away.

Giosè came back and the morning went by slowly. Every time I sank to a squat, he told me to stand again so my father could find me.

My father.

Mamma hadn't ever told anyone who my father was.

I imagined him now. He'd have black eyes. His nose would be straight—because mine was straight and Mamma's was crooked, so I must have gotten my nose from him. He'd be able to read. Mamma never would have chosen an uneducated man.

Maybe Giosè was right; maybe my father was here. I stared at each man. None of them looked at me.

After a while I switched to staring at the boys. They came in groups, ranging from six years old up, and most of them were with an uncle.

Giosè whispered, “Those men aren't really uncles. They're hired by the padroni to bring the boys over. A
padrone
pays a man's ticket. In return, the man watches over the boys until they get through immigration. Then the ‘uncle’ goes on his way.” Giosè brushed off his hands. “And the boys begin work for the
padrone
. It's illegal, but that doesn't stop anyone.”

The boys were barefoot, skinny, and dirty. Their “uncle” barked orders, and they obeyed immediately.

I stared at one boy. Mucus crusted his cheek and there was a colored chalk mark on his shirt. His “uncle” pointed at me. “That one, he's my nephew, too.”

Giosè shook his head as though he'd been right all along about me. “Get over there behind your uncle.”

“I don't know him,” I yelped. “I've never seen him before.”

The “uncle” grabbed me by the elbow and flung me behind him.

“No!” I screamed. “I don't know him!”

“Shut up,” said the “uncle.”

“Send me back to Napoli!” I screamed.

The “uncle” smacked me across the jaw with the back of his hand. I fell. He went on answering Giosè's questions.

The other boys turned their backs to us, but one of them hissed out of the side of his mouth. “Stupid. You'll have work in America. And food. Get up.”

I wouldn't get up. I'd done what Mamma said. I'd watched and learned and fit in. And none of it mattered, because now this “uncle” had me and I'd be lost and alone for the rest of my life. I lay there and screamed.

The “uncle” kicked me. “Get up, or they'll throw
you in a home with sick boys and you'll die.” He turned back to Giosè.

My side hurt. I drew my knees to my chest and hugged them.

“That's where I'm going,” said the boy with the colored chalk mark on his shirt, “to the sick home. To die.” His eyes were glassy with fever.

“I'm going to Napoli!” I forced out as loud as I could.

The “uncle” kicked me harder.

“What are you doing?” The translator from the first line stepped between us. “Don't kick him again.” He pulled me up. I held my side where I'd been kicked and looked at him in surprise. I'd thought he'd forgotten about me. Now he pulled me over beside Giosè. “That isn't his uncle. He just says it because one of his boys is sick and he needs a substitute for the
padrone
.”

“The guy says he's the boy's uncle,” said Giosè, “so he is.”

“Listen to the way he talks. He's from somewhere in Basilicata, but the boy's from Napoli.”

“What, do you think I'm deaf?” said Giosè. “You're German; I'm the Italian. This is my country they come from. I hear how they talk. That doesn't change a thing. The boy needs an uncle.”

“He's got shoes. He's going to stand right here till his father comes. He's not going anywhere with some fake uncle.”

Giosè looked at the “uncle” with both palms turned upward in apology. “Eh, beh, what can you do?” He pointed to the stairs behind him. “Those are the stairs of separation.
The sick boy goes in that hall to the left. If you ever want to see him again, you go with him. Everyone else goes down the stairs to fetch baggage and buy ferry tickets.” He held his hand out low, at the side of the podium.

The “uncle” put money in Giosè's hand. Then he pushed the feverish boy toward the hall on the left and barked at the rest of the boys to go with him downstairs. The sick boy left without a word. I was sure he believed what he'd said—he was going to the sick home to die. I wanted to yell to him, “Fight!” Hadn't his mother told him to survive?

I didn't want to stand anywhere near Giosè anymore. But where else could I go? The endless lines kept moving.

After about an hour Giosè unwrapped a skinny loaf of bread stuffed with cheese and meats. Lettuce, tomato, onion, and pepper flopped out the sides. He said, “In America they call this an Italian sandwich.” He laughed in a chummy way, as though he hadn't just tried to betray me. “These Americans,” he said, “they give only an hour for lunch—not enough to get home and eat in pleasure.” He shook his head.

His complaints went on and on. Did he think I cared one bit? Did he think he could win me back so easily? I listened because I had to. Otherwise, he might get mad and pawn me off on the next “uncle.”

I was hungry for his food, but Jews don't eat cheese and meat together. Still, it looked good. The people in the line glanced at the sandwich, closed their mouths, and looked away.

Giosè stood chewing over me. “Stay here and stand tall while I go eat. Your father will find you soon.”

The minute he was gone, I sat on the floor.

A man pushed a metal cart between the lines, selling boxed lunches of sandwiches, fruit, and pie for a half dollar. People paid in their different monies. A box lunch was big enough to feed five men. You could buy bread for four pennies, a sweet cake for six pennies, sausage for ten. I didn't know what the prices meant, and it didn't matter, because I didn't have pennies. But the smells …

Finally, Giosè came back. He didn't tell me to stand up. He got back to work.

The German translator said he was leaving for lunch now, and he handed me a piece of newspaper. I unwrapped it. A corner of a sandwich sat there. “Thank you,” I said in amazement.

“Don't mention it,” he said.

I took out the meat and ate the rest of the sandwich. The meat was pink; it could have been pig. I looked around for a place to stash it so the translator wouldn't find out that I hadn't eaten it. Mamma always said ingrates were the worst kind of people.

I worked the meat inside a pocket. Then I leaned my head against the inspector's podium and fell asleep.

Tap, tap
. Someone was tapping on the top of my head.

I looked up into Giosè's face. “The lines are done,” he said. “No one reported a lost son. You were a fool not to go with that ‘uncle.’ ” He straightened his cap. “All right, it's time for us to deal with you. Did you come off that ship called
Città di Napoli
?”

I nodded.

The German translator asked, “You're really alone? Like you said?”

I nodded.

He picked up his pen. “What's your last name?”

Could my name get me in trouble? I shrugged.

“I've got to write something. You came over on
Città di Napoli
… so, okay, your last name is Napoli.”

“Don't do that,” said Giosè. “Call him di Napoli or de Napoli or da Napoli—not just Napoli. Only Jews take city names for their last name.”

My breath caught. “Napoli is okay with me,” I said.

“So you do want to talk,” said the German translator. “Good. But Giosè has a point. You don't want to be taken for a Jew, trust me.”

Adversity, that was what he was talking about. Like Uncle Aurelio said. I didn't care what adversity I'd face in America. I wasn't going to be here long anyway. And no matter what, I'd always be loyal to my family. “Put my last name as Napoli,” I said firmly, feeling Nonna's approval.

He lifted an eyebrow. “All right, Signor Napoli, don't get upset. Anyway, you can use whatever name you want after you leave here. So, what first name do you want?”