The King of Mulberry Street (8 page)

I stood there.

“I have to put a first name, or I can't give you the document you need.”

“Dom,” I said.

“Domenico,” he said, writing on a form.

“No, just Dom,” I said.

He hesitated. Then he stuck out his bottom lip and nodded. “All right, Napoli, Dom. Birth date?”

“Twenty-fourth of December.”

“A Christmas present, huh?” Both men laughed.

“What year?” When I shrugged, he asked, “How old are you?”

“Nine.”

“That would make 1883—no, 1882, because you were born at the end of the year. So, who's waiting for you here in New York?”

I shrugged.

“No one? Oh, boy.” He put down his pen. “Here's how it works, Dom. Beyond that door you get a physical inspection …”

Giosè cut in, “No one's going to let you onto the streets of New York alone. A boy your age needs a family or a
padrone
.”

“
Padroni
are illegal,” I said defiantly. I could find a policeman and tell him all about the money Giosè took from the “uncles.” I could, if I knew where a policeman was. And if a policeman would listen to me. And if he spoke Napoletano. Suddenly it all felt so hard.

“Lots of things are illegal,” said Giosè calmly. “The
padroni
have been running the show for years.”

“I don't want a
padrone
.”

“I don't blame you,” said the German translator. “So that means you need a family.”

“Change his name to di Napoli,” said Giosè, “like I said. The translator in the third line, the one who knows almost no Italian, wrote in di Napoli for at least four men today whose last names he couldn't spell. The kid can try to find one of them and latch on.”

The German translator picked up his pen.

“No,” I said. “I'll stay Napoli. Napoli, Dom.”

“All right, then, kid. It's your life. You'll go it alone. If you act smart, you've got a chance. Others your age have done it.” He filled out my form.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “Why are you writing without asking me anything?”

“The whole thing's a lie anyway,” said the German translator. “But it's the only way you'll get into Manhattan.”

“What's Manhattan?”

“The main part of New York City. Where the big buildings are.”

“I don't want to go to New York City,” I said. “I want to go to Napoli.”

“No one's going to pay your fare back, boy,” Giosè said. “It's New York City or an orphanage—your choice.”

Orphanages. We had them in Napoli; the nuns ran them. Children who had no one in the world lived there in misery. I saw myself in ragged clothing, covering my ears against Catholic preaching, alone forever. “No.”

One of the nurses who had tested me earlier appeared, shaking her head and scolding the men. She grabbed my hand and pulled me away.

Something tugged at the back of my waistband. I felt behind with my hand. Someone had tucked folded sheets of paper into my pants. I quickly jammed them in my pocket.

The nurse took me to benches at long tables, where tired people sat. Many had chalk marks on their jackets. She tapped on shoulders, getting everyone to look at me. When no one claimed me, she gestured for me to sit and she marked with chalk on the back of my shirt. I could feel her write a giant
O
.

Every so often, a nurse came up and led someone down the hall to the left. But mostly, we waited. A man pushed a metal cart between the tables and gave crackers to everyone and warm milk to the children. It tasted funny, but I drank it.

Some of us were herded upstairs to dormitory rooms. Triple-decker beds pushed against each other in pairs. I was put in the room with the women and children. We were told to leave our things and come down in two hours to eat. In the meantime
we should line up for washing. Mothers stripped their children.

I wasn't about to undress, so I had to find a way to avoid the washing. And I wanted to look at that paper in my pocket.

I went to the bathroom, but women crowded around it. I headed for the stairs down to the bathroom I'd used during the day.

An Italian woman stood in my path arguing with a woman in uniform. “I paid my passage.”

“But you came alone,” said the official. “And no man is waiting for you.”

“See these hands?” The Italian woman held up red hands. “I did laundry night and day to get here.”

“Unescorted women are not allowed off Ellis Island. It doesn't matter how many people you argue with, that's the rule. We'll have to contact an immigrant aid society to come get you.”

“No charity home. I take care of myself. I have money.”

“Don't say it too loud,” said the official, “or you soon won't.” She fingered the keys that hung from her waist.

“I paid my passage.”

“The women's home is nice, I hear.” She jiggled her keys.

“I hear it's a hellhole. I paid my passage.”

I sidled past them and went downstairs. The bathroom was locked from the inside. I waited.

An official appeared from around the corner. I looked at my feet and hardly breathed. He walked by.

And still no one came out of the bathroom.

Finally I knocked. “Excuse me?”

The door opened a crack. An eye peeked at me. Then a hand grabbed my shirt and pulled me in, locking the door behind me.

We were pressed against each other in the tiny stall. I looked up into a boy's face.

“What are you doing making noise like that, trying to get me in trouble?” He was clearly from Napoli.

“I just want to use the toilet,” I said.

“No one's supposed to use this one after hours.” He frowned. “Go on.”

I hunched over and did my business.

“Hurry up,” he said. “And make sure no one sees you leave.”

I reached for the doorknob.

“Hold on.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Did you see if the stairs of separation were empty?”

“Are you trying to sneak out?”

His cheek twitched.

“I want to sneak out, too,” I said.

“You? What are you, nine? Ten? I'm fourteen. I can do a man's work. I can earn five dollars a week in a textile mill. Or even more. They won't let me work officially till I'm sixteen, but underage workers make it through all the time. I'm going to make it through.”

“You'll look older with a little brother tagging along.”

He pressed his lips together. “Get out of here.”

I opened the door and peeked out.

The boy shut the door, pulling me inside again. “You should have told me you're an orphan.”

“Who says I'm an orphan?”

“The
O
on the back of your shirt. Even if you do sneak
through, whoever sees that
O
will turn you in and you'll be thrown into an orphanage. You won't get out till you're sixteen.”

I took off my shirt, turned it inside out, and put it on.

“That's too obvious. You need a new shirt. And pants, too. Yours are ripped. Tell you what. I know where you can get other clothes. But you have to promise to bring me back some, too.”

“Okay.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Why shouldn't you?”

His forehead furrowed.

“Look,” I said. “If I bring back clothes, you're better off. And if I don't, you're no worse off.”

He swallowed. “You're too smart for your age.”

“I'll bring back clothes,” I said. “I owe you for telling me what the O meant.” And then maybe you'll let me come with you, I thought. But I said, “That way we're even.”

“Upstairs there's a room full of used clothes. Get me a coat. And pants and a shirt.”

“I can't carry all that. Besides, it's hot out.”

“Summer doesn't last forever, kid. It's not like Napoli. It snows here.”

Snow? But what did it matter? I'd be home soon. “Where's the room?”

“Somewhere upstairs. Search.” He opened the door a crack.

I peeked, then raced up the stairs. I walked near the wall and glanced into open doors.

I came to a closed door. Locked. But the next door opened to reveal piles of clothes. I shut the door behind
me. From the window I saw people scurrying about. It would be easy to get lost in that crowd—and then I could figure out what to do next.

Across the water tall buildings rose. A ship docked in the narrows. It looked small from here, a wolf in a canyon. Would I ever see the canyons near Napoli again? Would I ever see Mamma?

Not if they threw me in an orphanage.

I took the papers out of my pocket, finally. They were the documents the German translator had filled out. Somehow they would help me. I changed into a clean short-sleeved shirt and lightweight pants and tucked the papers in my new pocket. Then I grabbed a coat for the boy in the bathroom. I stuffed a shirt for him down one of the coat sleeves and a pair of pants down the other. I took the meat from my old shirt pocket and put it in the coat pocket. The boy could eat it later.

I walked back along the balcony. A hand caught my shoulder, and a woman yanked on the coat. I pulled away and ran. When I snuck a glance back at her, she was watching me.

The boy in the bathroom was waiting. He'd make a dash for it soon. Then I'd be alone again. And someone would write another O on my back. And I'd never make it onto a boat. Never get home to Mamma.

I needed something to catch that woman's attention so I could get to the bathroom. Anything.

I took the meat out of the coat pocket and tapped on the shoulder of a man. He looked at me. I pointed at the woman and handed him the meat. The man frowned. He stood up and walked toward her. I forced my way past the
rest of the men and ran down the stairs. I tapped on the bathroom door.

The door opened. The boy snatched the coat and shut the door in my face.

Panicked, I dashed down a hall and opened a door.

Men stood with their shirts in their hands, waiting to be inspected. A young girl carried a coffee cup to a doctor. She left through a side door.

A few of the other doctors had cups on the tables near them.

I picked up two empty cups. One in each hand, I walked out the door the girl had used.

I was in a kitchen.

A woman tilted her head at me and said something.

I forced a smile and put the cups on the counter. Then I walked through the kitchen and out another door and, sure enough, there were stairs. I went down and out onto the street.

I broke out running. I wove in and out of the people, checking over my shoulder. No one had followed me.

Ellis Island was easy to figure out. Ships docked on one side to drop off people. Smaller boats docked on the other to take them away. Immigrants stood in little groups and wrinkled their brows, carefully counting American money. Some were met by the joyous shouts of relatives. Others milled around in the early evening heat with paper pinned to their shirts. They looked hopefully at everyone who passed. A tall man went from person to person, reading their names off those papers. He gathered some together. One man said, “Ah, so you're my
padrone
.” After that, anytime I saw someone reading name tags, I hurried the other way.

Women in white uniforms with red crosses on the sleeve gave out doughnuts and apples. They didn't offer me any, so I took two doughnuts off a pile. They weren't nearly so good as
zeppole
back home, but okay. People ate sandwiches the women had given them, but there weren't any left. When I finished the doughnuts, I took an apple. Other women not in uniform but all wearing the same little hats helped people find lost baggage or relatives. America was full of women who wanted to help strangers.

Many spoke languages I understood more or less— Italian dialects, I heard a woman call them. I followed her around for a while, until I heard her explain she was sent by a society to help protect Italian immigrants. I would have asked her what we needed protection against, but I didn't want her to notice me.

A man clutched a scrap of paper and showed it to another man in uniform, who pointed. “That's the boat to Mulberry Street.”

Mulberry Street. Napoletani. Maybe Tonino, Mamma's friend. I'd try to get on a ship back to Napoli first, but if I needed help, I'd look for Tonino.

At the boat I walked past the ticket-taker, ready to show the documents in my waistband. But he didn't ask for anything. In Italy, I'd have gotten nabbed by the collar. Here, I was almost invisible. Good. That would make it easy to stow away on a ship back to Napoli when I reached the Manhattan docks.

The ferry left Ellis Island. Seagulls flew alongside. The evening sun seemed to sink into their white feathers and get lost entirely, turning them into flying balls of light. It was the strangest thing, but those seagulls made me happy.

I remembered my last full day in Napoli—how a seagull had watched what the
scugnizzi
were doing, how it had probably been waiting for its chance to steal. It felt like years ago.

We docked at a pier and got off. The press of people during the ferry ride gave way to nothing but a sea breeze at my back. Night was coming, and how I wished I could wrap up in Mamma's shawl. But I'd find a ship to hide on; everything would be okay.

Horses pulled wagons and people pushed carts of all kinds. A fish market was closing, and a man threw buckets of seawater over the wooden planks outside the shop. He scooped a few fish out of a tub of melting ice, the remains of the day, and laid them in a row on the pier. Then he dumped the icy water into the harbor. He went back inside the shop as boys ran up, grabbed the fish, and disappeared down a street. They were naked, but for two in short pants. They'd been swimming. The fishmonger came out, locked his shop, and walked away. He didn't even glance at the pier.

Laying the fish side by side like that, so neat and clean, had been a gift to the poor. And women gave out apples and doughnuts on Ellis Island, even if the doughnuts tasted pretty bad. Maybe everyone in America took care of the poor.

A lamplighter worked his way along the road. People left the wharf area and seeped back into the innards of the city. I ducked into a side street. A man turned the corner up ahead and walked toward me with a dog. I darted down an alley.